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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/everhartpoemsOOeverrich 


POEMS. 


BY 


j-.a.:m::es  ib.  ^vebhabt, 

AUTHOR   OF  A  VOLUME   OF   MISCELLANIES. 


I,  fuge:  sed  poteras  tutior  esse  domi. 

Martial,  Ep.  4. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

18  68. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

JAMES  B.  EVERHAKT, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in 
and  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


•  /    •  •••••••       • 

•  •     •  •••••••• 

•  •  ••        •    »      .      t  , 


•      •    •       •      ••    .».•• •  •         • 

«       •••       ••"•"«  •  •  ••« 


TO 

MY    FATHER 

THESE    PAGES 
ARE     AFFECTIONATELY 


1*  (v) 


M189010 


PROEM 


All  things  have  shapes  of  beauty, 

Sweet  visions  haunt  the  air— 
If  we  but  catch  their  favor, 

If  we  but  see  them  fair. 
All  sounds  have  got  their  music, 

All  passions  have  their  worth, 
Each  soul  has  its  creations, 

Each  thought  will  have  a  birth. 
Yet  few  are  of  the  prophets 

Whose  lips  are  kissed  with  fire ; 
And  few  are  of  the  players 

That  sweep  the  golden  lyre. 
No  bidden  guest  we  enter 

The  Muse's  banquet  hall ; 
Contented,  if  allowed  us 

The  scattered  crumbs  that  fall. 


(vii) 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Flag 11 

Kate  Spider 12 

The  Land  I  Love 15 

Grant  at  Chattanooga 26 

The  Harvest  Day 30 

Betty  Brown's  Grave 35 

The  Piebald  Horse 38 

The  Fisherman 40 

A  Reverie 44 

The  Entertainment  at  Simon's  House 46 

The  Maple  near  my  Window 47 

The  Cannon 50 

"The  Evening  Star" 51 

The  Sorrel  Locks 52 

The  Fall 54 

The  Kearsarge  and  the  Alabama 55 

TheDoans 60 

Campbell's  Ledge 67 

The  Past 70 

Croquet 72 

The  Mutilated  Tree 74 

Cm) 


x  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Close  of  the  Year  1866 75 

The  Death  of  Prince 81 

The  Drive 82 

Sconnelltown , 87 

The  Skaters 93 

To  a  certain  Golden  Eagle  and  a  certain  Wild  Goose 99 

The  Old  School-House , 101 

The  Fall  of  Richmond 106 

Vesper 108 

Abe  Smith 110 

The  Unknown  Lady 112 

Farewell  to  Winter 115 

The  Wreck  of  the  Albion 118 

The  War 123 

The  Brandy  wine 136 

She  is  not  There 139 

Notes 143 


POEMS 


THE  FLAG. 

By  yon  cluster,  with  starry  luster, 

The  regiments  muster  along  the  line — 

And  onward  moving,  devotion  proving, 
Their  hearts  a-loving,  around  it  twine. 

Mark !  how  they  eye  it !  as  if  the  fiat 
Of  holy  Diet  had  made  them  swear 

Before  the  altar,  on  law  and  psalter, 
They'd  never  falter  beneath  its  glare. 

Now,  high,  advancing,  oh!  see  it  glancing! 

Oh  !  sight  entrancing  !  they  charge  the  foe  !- 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  men  grow  bolder, 

Shielding  its  holder  from  overthrow. 

But,  hear  the  clashing  of  squadrons  dashing, 
Amidst  the  crashing  of  iron  and  lead ! 

Oh  !  scene  appalling  !  behold  them  falling ! 
The  wounded  crawling  among  the  dead  ! 

(in 


•   •  «...'•■ 


•   •  •  .  • 
-•  •  ••  • 


•     •      • 


12  KATE  SPIDER. 

That  banner  flaring,  with  colors  bearing 
A  charm  to  daring,  the  day  has  saved : — 

And  they'll  discover,  when  strife  is  over, 
The  thickest  clover  blooms  where  it  waved. 

Still  'neath  its  blazon  the  diapason 

Of  gun  and  caisson  for  Freedom  rolls — 

And  still  shall  Glory,  through  ages  hoary, 
In  art  and  story,  embalm  its  folds. 


KATE  SPIDER.!1) 

Kate  Spider  was  yclep'd  a  witch, 
And  filled  the  folks  with  dread  : 

For  she  gave  the  cows  the  murrain, 
And  made  the  milk  turn  red ! 

And  had  a  sort  of  mummy  look, 
As  if  she  had  been  dead  ! 

And  she  dwelt  upon  the  hillside, 

Within  a  natural  cave ; 
And  when  she  went  abroad,  they  said 

She  issued  from  the  grave — 
And  she  could  ride  upon  the  air, 

Or  walk  upon  the  wave. 

Now,  some  witches  may  be  tender, 
And  beautiful  withal, 


KATE  SPIDER.  13 

As  they  paint  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Who  told  the  fate  of  Saul ; 
But  in  Kate,  her  best  defender 

Could  see  no  charms  at  all. 

She  was  dark,  and  deeply  wrinkled, 

Her  nose  was  hook'd  and  thin, 
And  her  eyes  were  like  a  devil's, 

That  gloated  over  sin  ; 
And  when  she  tried  to  smile,  she  made 

A  very  horrid  grin. 

And  then,  too,  she  carried  with  her 

Her  kittens  and  her  cat, 
Who,  often,  on  her  head  and  arms, 

In  antic  postures  sat ; 
And  would  walk  upon  their  hind  legs, 

And  do  such  tricks  as  that. 

?Twas  said  they  were  her  messengers, 

And  brought  infernal  news, 
For  their  early  race  o'er  meadows 

Dried  up  the  morning  dews ; 
And  when  the  cowboy  crossed  their  trail, 

He  trembled  in  his  shoes. 

And  forsooth  !  she  read  the  secrets 

Of  fortunes  at  a  glance, 
And  announced  the  times  and  places, 

And  surnames  of  gallants, 
2 


14  KATE  SPIDER. 

When  young  damsels  dropp'd  their  money 
Amongst  her  simm'ring  plants. 

But  the  public  ban  was  on  her, 
Her  patrons  gazed,  with  awe, 

Upon  one  who  seemed  unfettered 
By  any  kind  of  law, 

And  into  the  world  of  spirits 
And  misty  future  saw. 

Some  nail'd  a  horse-shoe  o'er  the  sill, 

To  bar  the  entrance  way; 
Or  stuck  a  fork  beneath  her  chair, 

Near  fire  to  make  her  stay; 
Yet  these  were  rather  meager  plans 

To  keep  a  witch  at  bay. 

So  they  got  a  clever  artist, 
Who  sketched  her  on  a  door, 

Which  they  shot  with  silver  bullet, 
That  made  it  ooze  with  gore — 

And  Kate  Spider,  in  that  region, 
Was  seen  not  any  more. 


THE  LAND  I  LOVE.  15 


THE  LAND  I  LOVE 

You  ask  me,  of  the  lands  I  saw,  which  place  did  please 
me  best, 

Where  I'd  prefer  to  cast  my  lot,  and  spend  my  evening 
rest : — 

Attractions  rare,  in  many  climes,  allured  me  long  to 
stay 

'Mongst  relics  of  the  olden  time,  'mongst  marvels  of 
the  day : 

Amongst  the  precious  spices  that  scent  the  whispering 
gales, 

Where  Aurora  leads  the  dawn  o'er  the  haunts  of  East- 
ern tales ; 

Where  the  old  Sabeans  worshiped  Orion  and  his 
band, 

And  Hagar's  wandering  sons  spread  their  tents  upon 
the  sand : 

Where  whilom  the  Caliphs  cherished  the  garnered  lore 
of  books, 

Where  the  Pasha  fought  the  Gauls  with  his  mounted 
Mamelukes : 

Where  through  the  narrow  streets  defile  the  camel  car- 
avan, 

And  priests  in  alabaster  mosques  expound  the  Al- 
coran : — 


16  THE  LAND   I  LOVE. 

Where  that  immortal  river  rolls  with  such  a  conscious 
pride, 

'Twas  deemed  to  flow  from  heaven,  to  have  been  of 
Jove  the  bride ; 

Which  sheds  its  fertile  virtue  o'er  the  famed  Egyptian 
soil, 

And  washes  those  stupendous  wrecks  of  vanity  and 
toil — 

The  mighty  fanes  of  Ramses,  that  surpass  his  battles 
won, 

The  Memnon  that  made  music,  when  it  felt  the  morn- 
ing sun, 

The  pyramids  of  Gizeh,  and  that  hundred-gated  town, 

Which  fired  the  muse  of  Homer  with  its  riches  and  re- 
nown:— 

And  there's  that  Scriptural  region  of  patriarchs  and 
seers, 

And  the  City  that  our  Lord  bewailed  with  unavailing 
tears, 

The  pleasant  coast  of  Galilee,  that  widow's  town  of 
Nain, 

The  wheat  fields  of  Esdraelon,  and  Sharon's  rosy  plain, 

The  bushy  banks  of  Jordan,  Bethlehem's  humble 
cave, 

The  curving  slopes  of  Nazareth,  the  well  that  Jacob 
gave : 

All  the  spots  He  hallowed  with  His  weary,  sandaled 
feet, 

Where  He  did  His  miracles,  and  bestowed  the  Para- 
clete ; 


THE  LAND  I  LOVE.  11 

And  the  site  of  that  great  Temple,  whose  holies  were 

unvailed, 
When  His  sacrificial  body  to  the  cursed  cross  was 

nailed : — 
And  there's  that  splendid  City,  with  its  gardens  and 

kiosks, 
Metropolis  of  continents,  the  capital  of  mosques — 
The  scene  of  many  a  story,  historical  and  feigned, 
Where  hostile  creeds  contended,  and   their   chivalry 

maintained  : 
Adorned  with  marble  palaces,  with  fountains  and  with 

trees, 
With  bazaars   and  minarets,  and  the  lovely  Cherso- 
nese; 
The  glassy  waves  of  Bosphorus,  o'er  which  that  ship 

of  old 
Bore  Jason  and  his  followers,  who  sought  the  Fleece  of 

Gold:— 
And  there's  the  classic  Islands,  once  the  seat  of  bards 

and  schools, 
Where  Yenus  taught  her  mysteries,  and  Eloquence  her 

rules ; 
Where  the  vineyards  climb  the  hillsides,  and  orchards 

form  the  shade, 
Teeming  with  the  Cyprian  fruit  which  won  the  flying 

maid: 
Where  the  sculptor  in  the  rock  found  the  figure  of  his 

dream, 
And  painters  dipped  their  pencil  in  the  rainbow  and 

the  stream : — 

2* 


18  THE  LAND  1  LOVE. 

And  there's  the  shore  round  Athens,  that  swarms  with 

bees  and  flowers, 
The  groves  of  Acadernus  where  the  sages  whiled  their 

hours : 
The  Acropolis  and  Parthenon  shining  o'er  the  seas, 
Where  Pallas  put  the  olive,  and  Phidias  carved  the 

frieze, 
The  Agora  for  orators,  who   swayed  the  murmuring J 

throng, 
The  theater  of  Bacchus  where  they  trilled  the  Attic 

song; 
And  where  the  Areopagites  sat  on  the  seats  of  stone, 
Where  Paul  denounced  idolatry  and  preached  the  God 

unknown : 
The  rock-hewn  cell  of  Socrates,  who  led  the  docile 

youth 
To  oracles  of  virtue,  and  who  perished  for  the  truth : — 
And  there's  Rome,  the  seven  hill'd,  who  once  spread 

her  arms  and  creed 
From  the   Parthian   altars   to   the   Druid   groves   of 

Tweed, 
And  left  upon  the  earth  the  memorials  of  her  power 
In  scattered  heaps  of  ruins,  still  the  wonder  of  the 

hour, 
In  the  spirit  of  her  laws,  in  the  music  of  her  lays, 
In  the  walls  of  Christian  churches,  and  in  their  holi- 
days, 
In  the  language  of  the  peoples,  and  in  the  calendar, 
In  lessons  of  ambition,  and  the  rugged  trade  of  war; 


THE  LAND   I  LOVE.  19 

And  whose  foundations  still  uphold  the  modern  Papal 

Rome, 
With  its  precious  Vatican,  and  Saint  Peter's  mighty 

dome, 
Where  old  and  new  conspire  to  move  the  genius  and 

the  heart, 
And  lure  the  distant  pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of  faith  and 

art: — 
And  there's  delicious  Venice,  in  dazzling  beauty  seen, 
Emerging  from  the  parent  wave,  like  Passion's  fabled 

queen : 
Her  exhaustless  charms  concealing  many  a  grievous 

shame, 
Like  the  Cestus  of  the  goddess  that  stifled  hate  in 

flame; 
For  she  in  wanton  revels  played,  and  drank  the  wine  of 

sin 
Amidst  the  wealth  of  Caravels,  and  spoils  of  Sar- 
acen : 
And  it  has  been  the  joy  of  Bards  to  fancy  and  por- 
tray 
The  prestige  of  her  golden  prime,  her  graces  in  decay — 
How  once  she  wore  her  jewels  rare,  how  lost  them  from 

her  brow, 
How  their  luster  like  a  nimbus  still  lingers  round  her 

now: — 
And  there's  the  beauteous  Seville  on  Guadalquivir's 

shores, 
With   her  shaded  Alameda,  and  her  tower  built  by 

Moors ; 


20  THE  LAND  I  LOVE. 

And  where  pride  in  every  aspect,  at  every  turn  you 

meet, 
In  the  beggar  'neath  his  cloak,  in  the  costly  dressed 

elite, 
In  the  market  peasant  strutting  in  shoes  of  hempen 

strings, 
In  the  ladies  without  bonnets,  and  fingers  bright  with 

rings : 
Where  the  brigand,  in  the  twilight,  his  hand  upon  his 

knife, 
Boldly  hails  you  to  deliver  your  money  or  your  life : 
Where  in  the  vast   arena,  from  the   hovel   and  the 

court, 
The  eager  crowds  assemble  to  watch  barbarian  sport  : 
To  fill  the  air  with  plaudits  at  the  Picador's  keen  hand, 
When  the  dumb  brute  he  pierces,  and  his  blood  defiles 

the  sand, 
When  the  noble  steed  is  gored,  and,  all  mangled,  falls 

and  dies, 
And  the  bull,  lashed  to  fury,  at  the  Banderilla  flies  : 
And  so  with  repetition,  till  the  sun  is  sinking  low, 
And  their  degraded  passions  have  grown  weary  with 

the  show, 
And  mules  haul  off  the  carcasses,  musicians  gayly  play, 
And  midst  the  smoke  of  fans  afire,  conclude  the  cruel 

day:— 
There's  the  brilliant  promenade,  of  the  streets  along 

the  Seine, 
Where  fashion  holds  her  carnival,  and  pomp  and  pleas- 
ure reign : 


THE  LAND  I  LOVE.  21 

Where  every  tongue  and  costume  are  marked  amid  the 

mass, 
As  by  the  gaudy  windows  and  the  lofty  walls  they  pass ; 
Where  every  church  and   gallery  with  rarest  art  is 

rife, 
And  politeness  gilds  the  manners,  and  lends  its  grace 

to  life : 
Where  kettle-drums  are  beating  round  the  circuit  of  the 

walls, 
And  the  constant  tramp  of  soldiers  upon  the  pavement 

falls, 
And  the  veteran  and  the  maim'd  in  honored  ease  re- 
pose, 
Where  their  Captain's  mausoleum  its  blessed  shadow 

throws ; 
And  marble  arcs  of  triumph,  and  the  shafts  of  captured 

guns 
Show  the  glory  of  the  nation  and  the  valor  of  her 

sons: —  • 

There's  the  Switzer  with  his  cot,  in  the  mountainous 

ravine, 
The  glaciers  bright  above  him,  and  his  herds  upon  the 

green ; 
Bold  and  frugal  in  his  instincts,  and  vigorous  of  hand, 
With  the  virtue  of  his  sires,  and  the  spirit  of  his  land, 
Contented  with  his  rugged  lot,  and  to  his  nature  true, 
No  luxuries  e'er  seduce  him,  nor  tyrants  can  subdue : — 
There's   the   varied   scenery  from   the    Elbe   to   the 

Rhine, 
Where  the  camp  nears  the  college,  and  the  barley  joins 

the  vine; 


22  THE   LAND   I  LOVE. 

Where  castles,  old  and  crumbling,  tell  many  a  win- 
some tale, 
When  they  were  graced  with  ladies  fair,  and  gallant 

knights  in  mail, 
When  hundreds  shared  the  banquet,  in  the  quaintly 

garnished  hall, 
And  the  sudden  clash  of  sabers  oft  marred  the  festival ; 
When  the  Minnesingers  chanted  the  songs  of  chase 

and  arms, 
And  the  tender  notes  of  passion,  in  praise  of  maiden 

charms, 
And  the  lays  of  monstrous  dragons,  with  pestilential 

breath, 
Of  giants  huge  as  forest  trees,  and  terrible  as  death, 
Of  keeps  the  devil  builded,  with  their  dark  unfath- 

omed  cells, 
Of  captives  disenchanted  by  the  toll  of  abbey  bells, 
Of  the  seven  cruel  sisters,  with  their  dowry  of  flocks, 
Whom  the  curses  of  their  lovers  turned  into  dripping 

rocks, 
Of  the  fragrant  sloping  meadow,  which  angel  footsteps 

press'd, 
To  hear  the  beaded  friars  sing  the  raptures  of  the  blest, 
Of  chapels  built  of  virgins'  bones,  who  perished  by  the 

sword, 
To  commemorate  their  faithfulness,  as  martyrs  to  the 

Lord : — 
And   there   the  mighty  London   mart,  in  panorama 

grand, 
Shows   the   argosies  of   nations   exchanging   on   her 

Strand : 


THE  LAND   I  LOVE.  23 

Where  the  iron  wheels  of  traffic  in  triumph  roll  along, 
And  the  gates  of  Mammon's   temple  roar  with  the 

surging  throng, 
Where  genius  and  the  virtues,  oft  like  merchandise,  are 

sold, 
And  queen  fashion  measures  merit  upon  a  scale  of 

gold : — 
There  are  Caledonian  hills,  with  broom  and  heather 

crown 'd, 
And  lakes  the  most  inspiring,  at  their  sylvan  base 

abound, 
1  Where,  in  numbers  swiftly  flowing,  the  sweetest  bards 

have  sung, 
And  o'er   the   haunted   scenery  their  fairest  fancies 

flung; 
And  in  poetic  vision  shown  the  chieftain  and  his  men, 
All  for  the  lowland  foray  armed,  far  filing  through  the 

glen, 
The  maiden  with  her  fairy  launch,  in  timid  wonder 

turn, 
When  she  hears  the  stranger  bugle,  and  marks  the 

rustling  fern, 
And  the  white-haired  harper  thrumming  o'er  the  an- 
swering chords 
The  tale  of  wand'ring  palmers,  and  the  bitter  strife  of 

swords : — 
And  there's  the  Emerald  Island,  famed  for  her  soil  and 

wit, 
Whence  the  vermin  have  been  banished,  as  holy  men 

have  writ: 


24  THE  LAND  I  LOVE. 

Where  nature,  with  a  lavish  hand,   has  poured  her 

ample  horn, 
Though  tyranny  has   rendered   her  a  byword  and  a 

scorn ; 
Whose  children,  like  the  erring  Jews,  are  scattered  as 

the  leaves, 
And  round  all  standards,  but  their  own,  are  twining 

laurel  wreathes ; 
The  Israel  of  the  nations,  whose  ransomed  hour  shall 

come, 
And  her  rekindled   altar  fires   shall   light   her  exiles 

home : — 
And  yet  there's  another  country,  still  vaster  than  air 

these, 
Encrowned  by  lofty  mountain  chains,  and  washed  by 

mighty  seas, 
Extending  over  all  the  zones,  enriched  by  every  soil, 
Yielding  every  harvest,  from  the  apple  to  the  oil; 
Abundant  in  the  varied  ores  that  strengthen  and  adorn, 
In  the  vigor  of  her  growth,  in  the  freshness  of  her 

morn, 
With  enterprise  that's  fitted  her  resources  to  disclose, 
And  make  her  prairie  solitudes  to  blossom  as  the  rose ; 
And  with  charities   that  beckon  the  outcast  to   her 

shore, 
And  freight  her  decks  with  bounties  to  relieve  the 

foreign  poor : 
While  justice  with  a  steady  hand  upholds  her  equal 

scales, 
And  freedom  universal  o'er  the  blessed  land  prevails ; 


THE  LAND   I  LOVE.  25 

No  bigotry  of  worship  holds  her  conscience  in  duress, 
No  mystery  veils  her  altars,  no  censors  curb  her  press, 
No  adventitious  fortune  can  usurp  her  public  care, 
And  merit  from  obscurest  haunts  ascends  the  Curule 

chair ; 
With  these  auspicious  omens  of  her  boundless  future 

sway, 
With  peace  within  her  borders,  and  no  rivals  to  dis- 
may; 
With  her  women  of  the  fairest  that  bloom  beneath  the 

sky, 
With  her  soldiers  of  the  boldest  that  ever  dared  to  die, 
With  her  flag,  in  glory,  spreading  o'er  the  earth  and 

o'er  the  sea, 
Like  a  portent  to  the  tyrant,  like  a  rainbow  to  the  free, 
With  the  nations  flowing  toward  her,  as  to  a  promised 

rest — 
This,  this,  of  all  the  lands  I  saw,  is  the  land  I  love  the 

best. 


26  GRANT  AT  CHATTANOOGA. 


GRANT  AT  CHATTANOOGA. 

There  went  up  a  wail  of  sorrow 

From  all  the  Loyal  land — 
There  went  up  a  shout  of  triumph 

From  every  Rebel  band — 
For  the  banks  of  Chickamauga 

Beheld  our  smitten  host, 
And  the  banks  of  Chickamauga 

Made  good  the  Rebel  boast. 

And  trade  through  all  our  cities 

Was  staggered  by  the  blow, 
And  down,  with  her  torn  banner,  fell 

The  nation's  credit,  low. 
In  the  market  and  the  warehouse, 

The  pulpit  and  the  press, 
In  the  parlor  and  the  highway, 

.Was  seen  the  sore  distress. 

Good  men  beyond  the  ocean, 

The  poor  of  every  soil, 
And  the  negro,  like  a  culprit, 

Bound  to  his  thankless  toil, 
Felt,  each,  the  dire  disaster — 

Feared,  each,  a  darker  hour — 
Feared,  all,  this  cursed  prestige 

Of  fell,  barbaric  power. 


GRANT  AT  CHATTANOOGA.  2? 

And  many  a  brave  heart  trembled ; 

Many  a  weak  one  sighed; 
Many  a  prayer  was  offered  up 

To  turn  the  battle's  tide  : — 
Will  our  God  forsake  His  children, 

And  turn  away  His  face  ? 
Will  the  cause  of  truth  go  under, 

And  crime  usurp  its  place  ? 

Will  the  fields  of  so  much  glory, 

Will  all  the  martyrs  slain, 
Will  our  history  and  altars, 

And  all  our  hopes  be  vain  ? — 
Oh !  for  a  sign  in  heaven, 

Such  as  the  Kaiser  saw ! 
Oh  !  for  some  gifted  hero, 

His  conquering  sword  to  draw ! 

So,  some  doubted  and  debated, 

And  marveled  and  deplored — 
With  unswerving  faith  some  waited 

The  justice  of  the  Lord. 
Soon,  brighter  than  the  morning  fire, 

His  stately  steps  are  seen — 
Chariots  blazing  with  His  ire, 

Amongst  the  clouds  careen  ! 

Now  !  Grant  girds  on  his  armor, 

And  leads  his  legions  forth — 
For  in  the  fray,  that  comes  to-day, 

Jehovah 's  with  the  North ! 


28  GRANT  AT  CHATTANOOGA. 

And  he  bids  his  trusty  captains, 

That  at  the  signal  peal, 
Their  ranks  shall  scale,  through  iron  hail, 

The  mountain  sides  with  steel. 

The  columns,  swiftly  formed  in  line, 

Move  gayly  o'er  the  field, 
As  if  they  know  the  haughty  foe 

Is  sure  to  fly  or  yield. 
And,  Rebels,  now  look  to  your  works, 

See  that  your  aim  be  true, — 
For  Grant  commands  those  Loyal  bands, 

And  this  is  no  review. 

Full  fierce  the  mighty  struggle  swells ; 

Death  roars  from  every  gun  : 
While  through  a  flood  of  human  blood 

The  rifle  pits  are  won. 
Our  forces  follow  up  the  steep, 

Loud  shouting  as  they  go, 
Nor  heed  the  shot  that,  thick  and  hot, 

Come  crashing  fast  below. 

And  when  they  gain  the  crested  ridge, 

The  clouds  beneath  them  lie  : 
And  down  afar,  it  seems  a  war 

Of  demons  in  the  sky. 
Around  them  rolls  the  sulph'rous  smoke 

That  follows  ball  and  bomb, 
While  thunders  boom,  as  if  the  doom 

Of  all  the  earth  had  come. 


GRANT  AT   CHATTANOOGA.  29 

They  reach  the  very  last  redoubt, 

Hell  yawns  at  every  fire ! 
Midst  sword  and  lead,  o'er  piles  of  dead, 

The  Rebel  hordes  retire : 
And  routed,  scattered,  and  dismayed, 

Far  flee  these  lords  of  slaves ; 
While  flashing  bright,  from  every  height 

The  flag  of  freedom  waves. 

And  honor,  then,  to  all  our  men, 

To  leaders  and  to  guard, 
Who  braved  their  life  in  mortal  strife, 

Or  who  kept  watch  and  ward : 
And  praises  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 

Whom  nations  must  obey, 
That  He  did  bide  all  by  our  side 

On  Chattanooga's  day ! 

Let  holy  tears  bedew  the  graves 

Of  those  who  fell  in  fight : 
Let  marble  stones  above  their  bones 

Salute  the  morning  light : 
Let  History  write  in  golden  books : 

Let  bards  with  song  enshrine  : 
Let  women  chant  the  name  of  Grant, 

And  the  glory  of  the  Line  ! 


3* 


30  THE  HARVEST  DAY. 


THE  HARVEST  DAY. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  welcome  harvest ! 

The  ripened  grain  behold, 
Thick  standing  like  a  serried  host, 

In  thousands  manifold ; 
And  flaring,  in  the  early  sun, 

Their  nodding  plumes  of  gold  ! 

Now  comes  the  ponderous  Reaper, 
And  bares  its  whetted  knife; 

All  harnessed  to  the  faithful  steeds, 
As  if  equipped  for  strife, 

Like  the  scythe-armed  chariot,  grim, 
That  mowed  the  field  of  life. 

And  behold  its  wondrous  progress  ! 

Amidst  that  bright  array — 
How  swiftly  shifts  the  scenery, 

As  by  some  magic  play  ! 
As  the  falling  ranks  are  strewing 

Its  track  with  golden  spray. 

And  the  binder  in  his  bosom, 
Folds  up  the  straw  in  sheaves; 

And  his  comrade,  in  his  footsteps, 
In  heaps  the  bundles  heaves ; 


THE  HARVEST  DAY.  31 

And  o'er  the  yellow,  yielding  dome, 
A  cunning  roof  he  weaves. 

And  the  stacks,  in  rows,  are  rising, 

Like  avenues  of  towers ; 
As  if  some  royal  way  were  planned 

To  enter  Ceres'  bowers, 
When  she,  the  long  procession  leads, 

Crown'd  with  her  corn  and  flowers. 

So,  willing  hands  their  work  display — 

No  idlers  here  complain : 
The  Goddess  her  essential  stores 

Yields  to  the  plodding  swain, 
And  cheers  him,  as  he  drives  afield, 

To  load  the  yawning  wain. 

By  sudden  halts,  and  narrow  turns, 

With  skillful  rein  he  wends, 
While  clean  along  his  careful  course, 

Each  row  alternate  ends, 
And  o'er  the  creaking  ladders,  fast, 

In  teeming  bulk  ascends. 

And  wide,  around  the  varied  view, 

Delightful  scenes  appear : 
Vigorous  arms  in  toil  contend 

That  lately  hurl'd  the  spear, 
And  loyal,  merry  songs  salute 

The  bounty  of  the  year. 


THE  HARVEST  DAY. 

Some  sing  the  rural  Deities 

Who  give  propitious  days, 
And  blessed  Peace,  who  rules  the  land 

Adorned  with  laurel  bays  : 
And  the  grateful  charms  of  beauty, 

In  thrilling  roundelays. 

And  hear!  amidst  the  sultry  heat 
The  boasting  challenge  rise, 

As  every  rival  group  its  task 
With  zealous  labor  plies ; 

While  anxious  looks  are  scanning  oft 
The  omens  of  the  skies. 

And  see !  the  swallows  skim  the  pool, 
And  frogs,  hoarse  croaking,  show 

That  through  the  crackling  stubble  now 
The  wains  must  swiftly  go — 

For  the  winds  roar  in  the  distance, 
And  clouds  are  hanging  low. 

Then  hasten !  stalwart  yeomen, 
Nor  pause  for  lunch  or  rest — 

For  the  crisis  loudly  summons 
Each  man  to  do  his  best — 

Lo  !  the  sun  obscured  is  sinking, 
And  lightnings  gild  the  west. 

Haste  !  for  the  air  is  cooling  fast, 
The  shadows  darker  loom, 


THE  HARVEST  DAY.  33 

And  here,  and  there,  alone,  the  light 
Can  pierce  the  gathering  gloom, 

And  more  nearly,  and  more  fiercely, 
The  rapid  thunders  boom. 

Haste  !  for  the  humming  louder  grows 

Which  signals  instant  rain  : 
Which  murmurs  like  a  distant  crowd, 

Or  like  the  sighing  main, 
Or  like  the  tramp  of  horsemen  far, 

Who  sweep  along  the  plain. 

Haste!  nor  longer  with  your  labors, 
But  homeward  flee  from  harm — 

For  pattering  are  the  big  drops 
From  edges  of  the  storm, 

Like  the  rattling  fire  of  pickets 
Before  the  armies  form. 

See,  the  grain  and  forest  branches 

Are  whirling  with  the  dust : 
And  vines  and  fences  from  their  place 

With  ruthless  fury  thrust; 
While  on  the  flying  harvesters 

Down  swoops  the  howling  gust. 

And  then,  falls  a  sea  of  water — 
Then,  blaze  the  lightnings  fast — 

And  Earth,  the  far  horizon  round, 
Reels  in  the  fearful  blast — 


34  THE   HARVEST  DAT. 

And  turmoil  seems  to  mark  the  day 
As  if  it  were  the  last. 

The  streamlets,  too,  in  torrents  wild, 
Overflow  their  native  beds  ; 

And  flocks  and  herds,  in  terror,  flee 
For  shelter,  to  the  sheds ! 

Whose  frail  foundations  yielding  then, 
A  ruin  o'er  them  spreads. 

Now,  naught  of  all  that  pomp  is  seen 

That  gilt  the  busy  morn — 
Nor  jocund  cries  are  heard  that  hailed 

This  carnival  of  corn- 
But  everywhere,  a  humid  waste 
Forsaken  and  forlorn. 

And  o'er  the  dismal  picture  soon, 
Night  flings  her  sable  vail — 

And  the  harvest  and  the  houseless 
Are  left  to  floods  and  gale — 

And  farmers,  in  their  fitful  dreams, 
Their  woeful  lot  bewail. 


BETTY  BROWN'S   GRAVE.  35 


BETTY  BROWN'S  GRAVE.(2) 

On  the  banks  of  Lackawanna, 

Abruptly  sloping  down — 
A  red,  unpolished  sandstone  bears 

The  name  of  Betty  Brown. 
Though  the  legend  is  disfigured 

By  lichen  and  by  time, 
You  may  read  that  she  departed 

In  life's  inceptive  prime. 

A  hundred  years  ago  at  least, 

She  w^as  a  little  child, 
And  gamboled  with  the  Indian  girls 

In  this  sequestered  wild. 
She  may  have  grown  to  womanhood 

The  belle  of  all  the  vale, 
And  caused  unnumbered  feuds  between 

The  red  face  and  the  pale. 

And  who  knows  what  bloody  stories 

Are  buried  in  this  grave ! 
What  deeds  heroic  were  performed 

Her  life  or  love  to  save  ! 
How  many  an  am'rous  savage, 

When  toiling  in  the  chase, 
Has  loosed  the  bended  bow  at  once, 

Enchanted  by  her  face  ! 


36  BETTY  BROWN'S   GRAVE. 

How  many  a  gentle  shepherd, 

While  lounging  by  the  stream, 
Has  left  his  bleating  flock  to  err, 

When  she  inspired  his  dream! 
She  may  have  had  a  heart  of  steel, 

Less  prone  to  love  than  pride : 
And  flirted  with  her  suitors  fond, 

But  scorned  to  be  a  bride. 

She  may  have  been  a  weary  wife, 

With  infants  at  her  knee, 
Whose  unreturning  sire  had  gone 

A  wandering  o'er  the  sea. 
She  may  have  pined  away  in  grief, 

For  some  one  loved  and  slain, 
Who  gave  his  life  that  she  might  live, 

But  gave  his  life  in  vain. 

She  may  have  passed  the  dearest  time 

That  falls  to  human  lot ; 
And  felt  not  any  fear  or  want 

Within  her  rustic  cot : 
The  gorgeous  shows  of  waste  and  wealth, 

The  guiles  and  charms  of  town, 
May  ne'er  have  lured  the  forest  girl, 

Whose  name  was  Betty  Brown. 

With  kirtel  of  the  homespun  wool, 
And  wild  flowers  in  her  hair, 


BETTY  BROWN'S   GRAVE.  3T 

She  nevef  dream'd  of  silk  or  lace, 

Or  costly  gems  to  wear. 
With  no  gilt  course  upon  her  board, 

Or  carriage  at  her  gate, 
She  may  have  tripped  with  naked  feet, 

And  fared  on  earthen  plate. 

The  music  of  key'd  instruments 

May  ne'er  have  thrilled  her  ear, 
The  carol  of  the  singing  birds 

She  must  have  loved  to  hear. 
The  murmurs  of  iEolian  sounds 

That  fill  the  summer  choir, 
May  have  been  sweeter,  far,  to  her, 

Than  any  minstrel's  lyre. 

The  bright  and  varying  pictures, 

That  bloom  in  Nature's  plan, 
May  more  have  pleased  her  simple  eye 

Than  mimic  works  of  man : 
While  scenes  around  her  soul  inspired 

With  such  a  life  sincere, 
As  never  caused  her  foe  a  pang, 

Nor  friend  to  drop  a  tear. 

She  may  have  had  the  wit  of  age, 

The  innocence  of  youth, 
The  countenance  of  Abigail, 

The  tenderness  of  Ruth. 
4 


38  THE  PIEBALD   HORSE. 

And  yet  we  may  not  know  her  worth, 
Nor  guess  her  humble  fame — 

Whose  simple  record  only  shows 
The  shadow  of  a  name. 


THE  PIEBALD  H0RSE.(3) 

Long  years  ago,  in  quaint  old  times, 

When  travelers  all  bestrode 
Their  favorite  nags,  with  saddle-bags, 

And  jogged  along  the  road  : 
It  seems,  a  curious  notion 

Prevailed  witt  rich  and  poor; 
Who  rode  a  piebald  horse,  of  course 

The  hooping-cough  could  cure. 

Now,  Levis  Dobson  dressed  in  shorts, 
And  wore  a  flowing  beard, 

And  with  a  queue  and  glasses  too, 
His  look  was  wise  and  weird : 

And  on  his  own,  dear,  dappled  roan, 
He  like  a  sage  appeared. 

So  mounted  for  a  journey  once, 

To  see  his  distant  kin, 
He  soon  found  out,  he  raised  a  rout, 

What  town  he  entered  in — 


THE  PIEBALD   HORSE.  39 

Not  Galen  great,  in  all  his  state, 
Might  cause  a  louder  din. 

When  busy  wives,  and  unctuous  youth, 

His  coming  figure  spied, 
At  first,  amazed,  from  windows  raised, 

And  open  doors,  they  cried : 
Then  left  their  mops  and  suds  and  slops, 

And  crowded  to  his  side. 

They  grappled  for  his  stirrup-straps, 

His  bridle-reins  did  seize, 
With  strange  grimace  in  every  face, 

They  babbled  of  disease: 
While  Dobson,  doubting  and  dismayed, 

Did  tremble  to  his  knees — 
But  lost  his  fear,  as  he  did  hear 

The  parlous  youngsters  wheeze. 

That  sound  to  him  was  like  a  note 

Of  music  from  Parnassus  : 
He  felt  a  light  illume  his  sight — 

Smiles  glistened  through  his  glasses — 
And  making  off — yelled :  hooping-cough  ! 

Whisky  and  molasses ! 

Hence,  as  in  every  town  he  saw 
These  physic-craving  masses, 


40  THE  FISHERMAN. 

He  tore  along  with  spur  and  thong-, 
As  swift  as  whirlwind  passes, 

Shouting,  with  Stentorian  lungs: 
Whisky  and  molasses ! 


THE  FISHERMAN. 

I  saw  an  ancient  Fisherman, 

As  on  the  coast  he  stood, 
And  threw  his  line  with  sudden  force 

Upon  the  foaming  flood — 
And  it  did  seem  a  weary  plan 

For  sport  or  livelihood. 

And  as  the  surf  receded  out, 

And  drew  his  line  along, 
His  arms  stretched  softly  after  it, 

But  held  it  very  strong — 
And  then,  I  marveled  if  he  heard 

The  ocean's  choral  song. 

For  as  the  waves  did  ebb  and  flow, 

Each  had  its  monotone, 
But,  commingling  altogether, 

They  formed  a  plaintive  moan  : 
As  if  the  sea  had  wished  and  failed 

To  make  the  land  its  own. 


THE  FISHERMAN.  41 

With  the  heaving  of  the  breakers, 

The  sounds  did  correspond, 
And  hoarsely  boomed  against  the  beach, 

Or  died  away  beyond — 
And  of  this  curious  cadence 

One  grows  exceeding  fond. 

For  some  dreamers  might  imagine 

That  spirits  of  the  drowned 
Were  thus  struggling  with  the  billows, 

Which  had  them  closely  bound, 
And  their  strange,  despairing  voices 

Did  cause  this  solemn  sound. 

Or  that  it  was  the  mystic  strain 
Which  makes  the  world  accord — 

The  all-potent,  pauseless  echoes 
Of  that  creative  word, 

Which,  away  in  the  beginning, 
Was  uttered  by  the  Lord. 

And  while  I  thus  was  musing, 

The  Fisher  held  his  pole, 
Till  the  rapid  tide  incoming 

Against  his  breast  did  roll; 
And  till  I  feared  he  might  prefer 

A  drum-fish  to  his  soul. 

For  withal,  he  stood  there  calmly, 
As  if  he  dared  the  sea; 
4* 


42  THE  FISHERMAN. 

Or  deemed  it  only  courting  him, 
With  a  boisterous  glee : 

And  so  I,  in  doubt,  stayed  watching 
What  might  the  issue  be. 

It  was  rather  grand  to  see  him — 
A  column  midst  the  brine — 

Or  like  one  by  spell  enchanted 
His  eye  upon  the  line : 

And  of  motion,  or  retreating, 
Give  not  a  single  sign. 

Now,  some  men  for  home  or  honor, 
Have  scaled  the  blazing  fort : 

And  others,  for  love  or  money, 
Met  death  in  every  sort — 

But  this  enamored  Fisherman 
Forgot  it  for  his  sport. 

Sure,  the  chase  has  got  its  perils : 
The  horse  may  lurch  or  fall : 

And  the  gun  of  careless  comrade 
May  pierce  one  with  a  ball : 

Yet  these  a  sympathy  inspires, 
Each,  with  the  nerve  of  all. 

But  lonely  was  the  Fisherman, 
And  silent  as  the  dumb : 

Nor  on  his  ear  did  foxhound's  bay 
In  thrilling  echoes  thrum  ; 


THE  FISHERMAN.  43 

Nor  to  his  eye  the  landscape  views 
In  shifting  pictures  come. 

Before  him  was  the  sparkling  main, 

Above,  the  shining  sky, 
A  sail  or  steamer  loom'd  afar, 

And  near  him,  only  I, 
Who  sought  to  know  how  long  he  would 

The  surf  and  sun  defy. 

For  what  gave  him  all  his  patience  ? 

What  gave  his  self-command  ? — 
Ah,  then !  a  pulse  upon  the  string 

Electrified  his  hand; 
And,  soon,  he  made  the  ocean  yield 

A  tribute  to  the  land  ! 

And  he,  who  late  was  motionless, 

Grew  frisky  as  a  sprite : 
And  his  every  limb  and  muscle 

Throbb'd  with  a  fierce  delight, 
As  with  a  vig'rous,  skillful  pull 

He  brought  his  prey  to  sight. 

The  Hunter  knows  the  chase  he  runs : 

His  game  the  Gunner  eyes: 
The  Fisher  has  an  added  charm 

In  feelings  of  surprise : 
Since  he  ne'er  sees,  till  he  enjoys, 

The  value  of  his  prize. 


44  A   REVERIE. 

And  hence  we  ken  the  angler's  joy — 

The  risk  he  undergoes 
But  gives  incentive  to  his  art; 

While  in  his  bosom  glows 
The  ardent  will  to  make  the  deep 

Its  hidden  wealth  disclose. 

No  wonder,  then,  this  lonesome  craft 

Ambitious  minds  adore : 
Which  lures  them  where  the  billows  vast 

Their  diapason  roar: 
And  glimpses  of  their  mystery 

Shed  on  the  wasted  shore. 


A  REVERIE. 

The  last  visitor's  gone,  and  his  step  from  the  stair 
Has  left  me  in  silence,  in  my  old  rocking-chair ; 
And  musing  so  lonely  in  the  midst  of  the  night, 
A  host  of  abstractions  greet  the  ear  and  the  sight : 
Soon,  in  flying  battalions,  they  file  round  the  wall, 
Crowding  thick  as  the  spirits,  in  Milton's  grand  hall- 
From  the  far-off  in  place,  and  the  far-off  in  time, 
Inspirations  of  youth,  inspirations  of  clime — 
The  impressions  of  nature,  the  halo  of  art, 
And  the  sparkles  of  wit,  and  the  dreams  of  the  heart : 


A   REVERIE.  45 

The  glances  of  beauty,  and  the  footprints  of  worth, 
And  the  odor  of  love,  and  the  ringing  of  mirth  : 
And  the  blaze  of  the  crown,  and  the  mist  of  the  tear, 
And  the  shade  of  the  flag,  and  the  gleam  of  the  spear; 
The  mirage  of  cities,  and  the  specter  of  throngs, 
The  semblance  of  honors,  and  the  echo  of  songs, 
The  mem'ries  of  grandeur,  the  visions  of  power, 
And  the  luster  of  genius  yield  the  text  of  the  hour, — 
Show  illusions  surviving  their  substance  and  source, 
And  the  triumphs  of  soul,  and  the  weakness  of  force, 
And  that  void  as  the  winds,  and  as  false  as  the  sands, 
Is  the  pride  of  the  flesh  o'er  the  work  of  the  hands. 
For  years  in  their  progress,  and  the  world  in  its  strife 
Leave  but  only  the  phantoms  of  labor  and  life  ; 
And  the  perishing  dust  is  wide  scattered  and  strown, 
And  the  states  and  their  structures  are  blasted  and 

blown, 
But  invisible  thoughts,  undecaying,  remain, 
And  the  ages  unite,  by  their  mystical  chain. 


46    ENTERTAINMENT  AT  SIMON'S  HOUSE. 


THE  ENTERTAINMENT  AT  SIMON'S  HOUSE. 

Luke,  vii.  36-50. 

Midst  those  who  had  taken  their  places, 

To  sup  at  the  Pharisee's  board, 
There  entered  a  woman,  with  ointment, 

Who  stooped  at  the  couch  of  the  Lord. 
Her  tresses  hung  loose  o'er  her  shoulders, 

And  her  eyes  were  cast  to  the  floor  ; 
She  seemed  an  unwelcome  intruder, 

Desolate,  degraded,  and  poor. 

Her  tears  bathed  the  feet  of  the  Master, 

She  wiped  them  with  folds  of  her  hair, 
Bedewed  them  with  kisses  and  ointment, 

And  silently  worshiped  Him  there. 
The  host,  as  a  bigot,  regarded 

Her  beautiful  deed  with  disdain, 
And  deemed,  if  his  guest  were  a  Prophet, 

He'd  know  that  her  touch  was  a  stain. 

The  Lord  in  His  wisdom,  divining 
What  passed  in  the  Pharisee's  heart, 

Declared  how  his  faith  is  deficient 
Who  yields  of  his  love  but  a  part. 

For  Simon  but  formally  tendered 
The  debt  that  to  strangers  he  owed, 


THE  MAPLE  NEAR  MY   WINDOW.        4t 

Denying  the  tribute  of  homage 
The  woman  so  fondly  bestowed. 

Though  many  her  sins,  He  forgave  her : 

Then,  marveled  the  guests  at  the  board  : 
"Who's  this,  that  he  pardons  transgression?" — 

The  woman  alone  knew  the  Lord. 
Their  cavils  He  checked  by  repeating 

Salvation  again  in  her  ears, 
Who'd  shown  her  belief  and  devotion 

By  lowliness,  sorrow,  and  tears. 


THE  MAPLE  NEAR  MY  WINDOW. 

You  may  tell  me  of  the  willow  that  sadly  sweeps  the 
tomb, 

That  held  the  harps  of  Zion,  when  the  captives  mourned 
their  doom — 

You  may  boast  about  the  oak,  with  its  branches  high 
and  wide, 

With  its  Dodona  oracles,  and  old  Druidic  pride — 

You  may  speak  about  the  olive,  that  blooms  in  warmer 
soil, 

That  bears  Minerva's  emblem,  and  that  bears  the  pre- 
cious oil — 


48        THE  MAPLE  NEAR  MY   WINDOW. 

You  may  sing  about  the  palm,  and  its  shadow  on  the 

sand, 
Whose  boughs  the  pilgrims  carried  from  the  distant 

Holy  Land — 
You  may  praise  the  classic  laurel,  with  its  ever  grow- 
ing green, 
Which  crown'd  the  festive  banquet  and  the  hero's  lordly 

mien — 
You  may  talk  about  the  cedar,  whose  gilded  rafters 

bore 
The  ceiling  of  the  Temple,  in    the   mighty  days  of 

yore — 
And  you  may  gather  all  the  trees  that  in  the  forest 

grow, 
You  may  gather  all  the  flowers  that  in  the  garden 

blow ; 
From  the  rose  that  runs  the  lattice  to  the  ivy  on  the 

wall, 
There  is  none  of  them  can  equal  my  Maple  in  the 

Fall. 
It  mingles  all  the  colors  that  nature's  stores  can  yield, 
The  carnation  of  the  hot-house,  the  verdure  of  the 

field, 
The  golden  tints  of  sunset,  the  rainbow's  many  hues, 
The  shifting  shades  of  Ocean,  the  glistening  morning 

dews. 
I  watch  it  by  the  gaslight,  and  I  watch  it  by  the 

day, 
Its  leaves  become  more   lovely  as  they  slowly  pass 

away ; 


THE  MAPLE  NEAR  MY   WINDOW.        49 
i 

Like  the  dolphin  that,  expiring,  sheds  new  glory  on  the 

wave, 
Like  virtue  that  grows  brighter  as  it  hovers  near  the 

grave. 
Now,  one  by  one,  they're  dropping  on  the  cold  and 

stony  street, 
And  little  girls  are  picking  them  from  under  passing 

feet; 
They  will  weave  them  into  garlands,  and  bind  them  in 

bouquets, 
To  decorate  the  parlors,  and  to  grace  the  holidays. 
And  when  the  hoary  winter  comes,  with  wild   and 

snowy  blast, 
These  brilliant  maple  relics  will  revive  the  faded  past; 
They  will  tell  the  pensive  story  of  the  seasons  as  they 

turn, 
The  spring-time  with  its  promise,  and  the  autumn  with 

its  urn. 


50  THE  CANNON. 


THE  CANNON. 

In  the  midnight,  in  the  daylight, 
At  the  tropics,  near  the  poles, 

On  the  mountains,  o'er  the  fountains 
Of  the  deep,  its  thunder  rolls. 

From  the  castle,  for  the  vassal, 
For  the  tyrant,  for  a  name  ; 

For  the  few  and  for  the  true ; 
Now  in  honor,  now  in  shame. 

None  betraying,  all  obeying, 
Knowing  neither  friend  nor  foe  ; 

Scattering  death  with  fiery  breath, 
Alternating  hope  and  woe. 

Bloody  toiler,  frightful  spoiler — 
Men  and  cities  laid  in  dust ; 

Fields  forsaken,  treasure  taken ; 
Plow  and  anvil  black  with  rust. 

But  its  mission,  demolition, 
Has  its  final  volley  flung ; 

And  hereafter,  joy  and  laughter 
Shall  employ  its  iron  tongue. 


THE  E  VEMNG  ST  A  R  51 


"THE  EVENING   STAR," 

LOST  IN  THE  GULF  STREAM,  OCTOBER  3,  1866. 

On  the  placid,  briny  ocean, 

With  a  blithe  and  bounding  motion, 

Steams  a  modern  caravel ; 
In  her  hull  is  costly  treasure, 
On  her  deck  are  youth  and  pleasure, 
Tripping  to  the  Tyrian  measure 

Of  the  flute's  euphonious  swell. 

Wit  and  grace  are  gayly  blending — 
Love  his  silver  bow  is  bending — 

And  the  goblet  passes  round  ! 
Ivied  mirth  controls  the  wassail ; 
Like  a  fairy,  floating  castle, 
Sails  the  joyous,  gallant  vessel, 

O'er  the  treacherous  profound. 

Towards  the  region  of  bananas, 
Past  the  sunny,  sweet  savannas, 

She  is  racing  with  the  Hours — 
Every  thought  of  peril  spurning — 
Every  soul,  with  ardor,  yearning 
For  that  tropic  climate,  burning 

Where  the  Crescent  City  towers 


52  THE  SORREL   LOCKS. 

She  is  in  that  wondrous  river, 
Whose  strong  current  flows  forever 

Through  the  volume  of  the  sea — 
When  there  comes  a  cyclone  roaring- 
O'er  her  sides  a  deluge  pouring — 
Like  a  monster  fain  devouring 

All  the  precious  argosy. 

Gilt  saloons,  from  floor  to  rafter, 
Courage,  beauty,  wit,  and  laughter, 

Are  the  gloomy  tempest's  prey. — 
Few  to  tell  the  tragic  story 
Of  the  bark  that  rode  in  glory 
On  the  mountain  billows  hoary, 

Will  behold  the  light  of  day. 


THE  SORREL  LOCKS. 

I  think  it  was  Paul,  in  his  sermon, 

Who  spoke  of  luxuriant  hair, 
And  called  it  the  shame  of  the  strong  sex, 

And  the  crowning  grace  of  the  fair. 
But  no  canon  ever  decided 

What  tint  is  the  most  debonair. 


THE   SORREL  LOCKS.  53 

The  Ma'm  of  that  little  Immortal, 

Who  causes  such'amorous  pain, 
Had  locks,  says  the  classical  poet, 

As  bright  as  the  harvested  grain  ; 
And  Laura's,  that  vied  with  the  sunbeams, 

Made  Petrarch  adore  her  in  vain. 

But  Scott's  lovely  lady  of  Katrine, 

As  seen  in  her  fairy  canoe, 
Had  tresses  as  black  as  the  raven's, 

•With  the  gloss  of  the  morning  dew ; 
And  those  of  the  Haidee  of  Byron 

Were  tinged  with  an  auburn  hue. 

And  Praed,  in  his  Troubadour  carol, 
Says  brown  was  the  hair  of  the  Nun ; 

But  dark  are  the  curls  of  the  Princess, 
In  the  idyl  of  Tennyson  ; 

And  Herrick  declared  that  his  lady, 
Though  shorn,  were  a  paragon. 

It  seems,  from  these  random  examples 
Of  bards  who've  sported  the  laurel, 

That  from  the  mere  passion  of  lovers 
We  cull  the  apposite  moral — 

Each  admires  the  hair  of  his  lady, 
If  auburn,  somber,  or  sorrel. 


5* 


54  THE  FALL. 


THE  FALL. 

Alas  !  the  beautiful  season  ! 

With  its  warm,  peculiar  bloom, 
With  its  gayly  painted  foliage, 

With  its  verdure  and  perfume, 
And  its  genial  fascinations, 

Is  fast  fading  into  gloom  ! 

Like  some  vast  and  varied  pageant, 

Like  some  gorgeous,  moving  show ; 
With  the  gauzy  clouds  for  curtains, 

For  its  stage,  the  earth  below, 
For  its  orchestra  of  music, 

Every  voice  the  senses  know — 
It  is  shedding,  now  in  transit, 

Its  departing,  dying  glow. 

And,  thus,  forever  disappearing, 

Are  the  brightest  gifts  of  time — 
Pleasure,  midst  enchanting  revels, 

Honor,  crowning  heights  sublime, 
Fortune,  girt  with  golden  trophies, 

Beauty,  in  its  dearest  prime — 
All,  it  seems,  whilst  we  admire  them, 

Vanish  to  some  mystic  clime. 


THE  KEARSARGE  AND    THE  ALABAMA.    55 


THE  KEABSARGE  AND  THE  ALABAMA. 

'Twas  on  a  Sabbath  morning, 

In  June  of  sixty-four, 
The  rebel  Alabama 

Swung  from  the  Gallic  shore. 
Her  battle-flag  was  flying, 

Her  rig  was  trim  and  tight, 
Her  guns  were  manned  and  shotted, 

Her  decks  were  cleared  for  fight. 

The  Kearsarge  in  the  offing, 

Eased  out  a  league  or  so, 
And  leaving  neutral  waters, 

Bore  down  upon  the  foe. 
These  cruisers  fairly  mated, 

In  metal,  men,  and  weight, 
Were  gaged  to  test  in  conflict 

Their  prowess  and  their  fate. 

The  first  was  British  handiwork, 

Equipped  by  British  gold ; 
Her  crew  were  British  sailors, 

Her  chief  a  Rebel  bold. 
She  was  a  pirate,  branded, 

The  terror  of  the  wave, 
Burning  costly  argosies, 

And  warring  to  enslave. 


56     THE  KEARSARGE  AND    THE  ALABAMA. 

The  other  bravely  heralded 
,    The  true  Republican, 
The  autonomy  of  peoples, 

The  brotherhood  of  man. 
She  wore  a  grim  defiance 

To  slavers  and  to  kings — 
She  bore  the  hope  of  ages 

Upon  her  eagle  wings. 

Right  warily  they  move  now, 
Amidst  the  steam  and  spray, 

Careering  round  in  circles, 
Manoeuvring  for  the  fray ; 

Crowds,  on  cliffs  and  vessels,  watch 
The  marvelous  display. 

It  is  a  sight  to  witness, 

These  rivals  in  their  pride, 
As  they  sweep,  in  silence,  o'er 

The  undulating  tide ; 
Grandly  as  Bucentaurs  once, 

Espousing  their  sea  bride. 

Hark !  though  a  mile 's  between  them, 

The  rebel  broadside  roars ; 
Yet  thrice,  before  the  Kearsarge 

An  answering  volley  pours ; 
Afar,  the  mighty  echoes 

Alarm  the  teeming  shores. 


THE  KEARSARGE  AND    THE  ALABAMA.     5? 

The  waters  spout  in  columns ; 

Great  clouds  of  smoke  ascend ; 
And  in  red  lightning  flashes 

The  fires  their  tribute  lend, 
Till  elements  and  enemies 

In  horrid  turmoil  blend. 

Still  they  tack  and  weather  ship ; 

And  hurl  their  pond'rous  blows ; 
Still  send  up  alternate  cheers, 

As  the  battle  hotter  grows ; 
Still  make  their  distance  lessen, 

As  if  about  to  close. 

Still,  distracting  scenes  appear 

Upon  the  hostile  ships — 
Captains  shouting  orders  through 

The  trumpet's  brazen  lips  ; 
And  gunners  grimed  with  powder, 

Half  naked  to  the  hips. 

Still,  gangs  are  quickly  passing 

Munitions  from  below ; 
Or,  charged  with  fearful  errands, 

Are  running  to  and  fro ; 
With  toil  and  passion  sweltering, 

Like  ministers  of  woe. 

The  missiles  and  the  splinters 
Go  crashing  through  the  spars ; 


58     THE  KEARSARGE  AND    THE  ALABAMA. 

Down  tumble  chains  and  chimneys 

And  down  drop  British  tars, 
Never  more  to  sail  again 

Beneath  the  Rebel  bars. 

The  foe  with  will  unyielding, 

And  fierce  heroic  zeal, 
Their  lead  and  iron  swiftly 

In  wasteful  rounds  still  deal ; 
To  our  fell  aim  replying 

By  one  incessant  peal. 

Their  hull  is  sadly  shattered, 

In  briny  waters  pour ; 
The  decks  are  strewn  with  corpses, 

The  scuppers  run  with  gore ; 
Midst  bitter  oaths  and  groaning, 

They  head  the  ship  for  shore. 

But  scarcely  move  her  paddles, 

Her  driving-engine  fails; 
The  balls  have  crushed  her  rudder, 

And  swept  away  her  sails  : — 
Vanquished,  with  his  crew  and  craft, 

Semmes's  haughty  spirit  quails. 

Courage  can  no  longer  stand 

This  hurricane  of  fire — 
Strike,  he  must,  that  cursed  flag, 

Surrender  or  expire ! 


THE  KEARSARGE  AND    THE  ALABAMA.    59 

Naught  of  hope  or  chance  remains, 
Resistance  to  inspire. 

The  Rebel  guns  are  silenced, 

No  more  her  banner  flies ; 
Down  in  the  sea  she  settles, 

While  shouts  triumphant  rise — 
Perfidious  Gaul  and  Briton 

Are  dumb  with  sore  surprise. 

Now,  Charity  an  angel, 

Sheds  grace  upon  the  fray — 
Victors  save  their  drowning  foes, 

And  end  the  brilliant  day, 
Whose  name  shall  never  perish 

Till  Christians  cease  to  pray. 

And  long,  long  years  hereafter, 

In  city  and  in  manse, 
Mothers  fond  will  tell  the  tale 

To  boys  with  listening  glance, 
How  we,  the  Anglo-rebel 

Sank  on  the  coast  of  France. 

Hurrah  !  then,  for  our  navy ! 

For  Winslow  and  his  Tars, 
Who,  with  the  sword  and  trident 

Of  Neptune  and  of  Mars, 
Have  blazon 'd  with  new  luster 

The  blessed  flag  of  stars ! 


60  THE  DOANS. 


THE  D0ANS.(4) 


FYTTE    THE   FIRST. 


Far  back  in  the  troublous  era, 

In  tbe  kingly  days  of  George, 
When  Britishers  held  the  city, 

And  Yankees  camped  at  the  Forge : 
The  prices  costly  of  produce, 

And  the  charms  of  foreign  gold 
Were  snares  to  the  loyal  conscience, 

And  tempting  spoil  to  the  bold. 

'Twas  late,  when  Giles  with  his  wagon 

Was  leaving  the  Ferry  Pier ; 
The  clink  of  the  purse  he  carried 

Delightfully  fell  on  his  ear. 
He  laughed,  recounting  his  bargains; 

Imagined  his  dame  would  stare, 
When  into  her  lap  he'd  empty 

His  wallet  of  golden  ware. 

And  thus,  his  journey  beguiling, 
As  o'er  him  the  moonlight  glowed, 

Awhile,  he  had  scarcely  noticed 
How  near  him  a  horseman  rode — 


THE  DOANS.  61 

Saluting  freely  each  other, 

They  came  to  a  country  Khan ; 
Stopping  to  water  their  horses, 

The  stranger  treated  his  man. 

And  then ;  he  hinted  at  starting, 

As  their  course  was  alike  for  miles, 
His  nag  he'd  hitch  to  the  wagon, 

And  ride  in  the  seat  with  Giles. 
And  so,  together  they  wended, 

And  drank  and  chatted  along, 
And  cursed  the  Doans  and  the  British, 

Or  chimed  in  concert  a  song. 

The  Farmer,  fond  and  familiar, 

Revealed  his  luck  and  his  gains : 
At  last,  o'ercome  by  the  liquor, 

His  hands  abandoned  the  reins — 
He  slept  till  morning  awoke  him, 

Away  in  the  woods  alone, 
To  find  that  his  clothes  were  rifled, 

And  his  friend  was  Moses  Doan! 


FYTTE   THE   SECOND. 

The  Drama  flourished  in  Southwark, 
Fostered  by  soldiers  and  lords — 

Young  Andre  painted  the  scenery, 
Old  Hallam  strutted  the  boards. 
6 


62  THE  DOANS. 

A  Tory  was  making  his  exit, 
Along  to  the  carriage  stand — 

Feeling  a  twitch  at  his  pocket, 
He  seized  a  nobleman's  hand ! 

Shocked  at  his  haste  and  imprudence, 

He  carried  his  lordship  home, 
And  roused  his  elegant  mansion, 

From  basement  up  to  the  dome. 
Light  blazed  from  a  hundred  candles, 

And  flashed  from  the  mirrored  walls: 
Sweet  music  burst  from  pianos ; 

Rare  viands  reeked  in  the  halls. 

Beauty  and  wealth  did  their  utmost 

To  honor  the  lordly  guest — 
Till,  cloyed  with  feasting  and  incense, 

They  showed  him  up  to  his  rest. 
Now,  darkness  follows  the  splendor ; 

And  silence  soothes  to  repose  : 
When,  out  from  his  lordship's  chamber 

A  figure  stealthily  goes. 

Beneath,  where  the  host  is  dreaming, 

The  Liverpool  watch  is  drawn, 
And  gold  from  the  oaken  bureau : 

And  the  ghostly  figure 's  gone — 
He  smiled,  as  he  gained  the  pavement, 

And  saw  the  treasure  his  own, 
Saying :  they'll  likely,  to-morrow, 

Find  that  their  lord  was  a  Doan, 


THE  DOANS.  63 


FYTTE   THE   THIRD. 

A  Lancaster  crowd  were  gathered, 

On  one  of  those  festal  days, 
When  the  olden  sports  were  cherished, 

They  sing  in  the  Scottish  lays. 
The  wrestlers  writhed  in  their  struggles, 

With  many  a  twist  and  bound, 
Till  one  had  lifted  the  other, 

And  cast  him  prone  to  the  ground. 

Then  scowled  from  the  former  defiance, 

And  mighty  the  oath  he  swore ; 
He'd  fling  from  his  feet  the  foremost 

That  ever  the  county  bore. 
Soon  murmurs  rose  at  a  distance, 

A  shout  in  answer  replied — 
A  gainly,  sinewy  yeoman 

Came  pushing  the  people  aside. 

He  threw  off  his  hat  and  doublet, 

His  arms  were  brawny  and  bare ; 
He  grasped  the  waist  of  the  boaster, 

And  tossed  him  high  in  the  air. 
The  latter  rose  and  retreated, 

His  head  to  the  earth  was  bowed — 
Wild  plaudits  greeted  the  stranger, 

Around  him  jostled  the  crowd. 


64  THE  DOANS. 

The  lists  were  opened  for  leaping : 

The  stranger  tried  it  the  last — 
Beyond  the  mark  of  the  nimblest, 

Scarce  with  exertion  he  passed. 
And  then,  to  crown  his  successes, 

A  Pittsburg  wagon  was  near, 
He  braced  his  nerves  for  the  effort — 

O'er  it  he  leaped  like  a  deer. 

The  people,  awed  and  bewildered, 
Stood  dumb  and  still  as  the  stones ; 

Till  wonder  broke  into  clamor — 
"By  Jove  !  it's  one  of  the  Doans!" 


FYTTE   THE   FOURTH. 

The  Quaker  sat  by  his  mantel, 

Enjoying  the  genial  heat : 
Abroad,  the  tempest  was  driving 

A  rattling  shower  of  sleet. 
A  knock  was  heard  at  the  entrance, 

A  Pauper,  feeble  and  gaunt, 
Came  shuffling  into  the  parlor, 

With  sorrowful  signs  of  want. 
He  told  of  the  hours  he  fasted, 

Of  wand'rings  far  in  the  gloom  ; 
He  showed  the  rents  in  his  raiment, 

And  his  eyes  filled  up  with  rheum. 


THE  DOANS.  65 

The  Quaker,  listened,  and  yielded 

His  heart  to  the  sad  appeal ; 
And  drew  him  near  to  the  fireplace 

And  ordered  a  wholesome  meal. 
The  Pauper  appeared  to  relish 

His  gentle,  kindly  care ; 
And  fervently  heard  the  Scripture, 

And  joined  the  family  prayer. 

The  Quaker,  soothed  in  his  conscience, 

Went  weary  up  to  his  bed ; 
The  Pauper,  seeming  so  pious, 

Purloined  his  money  and  fled. 
Some  months,  not  many,  thereafter, 

They  carried  a  Doan  to  jail, 
Who,  seeing  the  Quaker,  asked  him 

If  he'd  go  the  Pauper's  bail. 

FYTTE   THE   FIFTH. 

The  neighbors,  at  dusk  in  summer, 

Soon  after  their  daily  toil, 
Their  pipes  at  the  "Boot"  were  smoking, 

And  sipping  their  cider  oil. 
Two  horsemen,  dusty  with  travel, 

Alighted  awhile  for  rest, 
Then  draining  their  mugs,  they  mounted, 

And  rode  away  to  the  west. 
And  one  of  the  wary  neighbors, 

With  caution,  followed  their  track, 
6* 


THE   DOANS. 

And  knew  his  men  when  he  saw  them 

Describing  a  circuit  back. 
He  summoned  the  comitatus, 

For  he  was  the  sheriff,  hight, 
And  chased  them  down  at  a  gallop, 

And  fought  a  desperate  fight. 
The  bullets  showered  for  an  instant, 

And  a  few  had  broken  bones ; 
But  law,  and  the  men  of  Chester 

Too  many  were  for  the  Doans. 

FYTTE   THE    SIXTH. 

The  people  poured  in  the  city, 

As  if  to  a  feast  or  fair ; 
And  all  of  the  streets  were  crowded 

That  led  to  Center  Square; 
And  loud  were  the  oaths  and  jesting 

That  mixed  with  the  sport  and  strife, 
With  tramp  of  the  foot  and  horses, 

With  sounds  of  the  drum  and  fife. 
And  up,  on  a  dizzy  platform, 

With  clerks  and  men  of  the  law, 
Three  rogues,  arrayed  in  their  halters, 

Waited  the  terrible  draw! 
Black  caps  were  over  their  faces, 

And  each  had  a  ghostly  shroud ; 
Their  hands  were  pinioned  behind  them, 

And  the  Parson  prayed  aloud : 


CAMPBELL'S  LEDGE. 

Then  came  a  marvelous  silence — 
And  then  a  shock  and  a  gleam — 

The  last  of  the  Doans  were  swinging 
From  under  the  gallows  beam. 


CAMPBELL'S  LEDGE  IN  WYOMING  VALLEY,  PA.(5) 

We  clambered  up  the  rugged  steep, 

All  thick  with  oak  and  pine ; 
The  velvet  moss  was  in  our  path, 

And  Celia's  arm  in  mine. 
Her  friend  and  Etta  lagged  behind, 

With  leisurely  delay; 
Now  plucking  berries  from  the  wood, 

Now  resting  by  the  way. 

Through  many  a  weary  circuit, 

'Mongst  bushes  and  'mongst  trees, 
We  gained,  at  last,  the  Campbell's  Ledge, 

And  caught  the  mountain  breeze — 
Oh,  God  !  what  glorious  recompense, 

This  panoramic  show ! 
The  heavens  like  a  veil  above, 

The  beauteous  earth  below. 

The  valley  with  its  villages 
In  fields  of  varied  green 


68  CAMPBELL'S  LEDGE. 

The  forest  range  on  either  side 
As  frame-work  of  the  scene. 

The  river  flashing  in  the  snn, 
The  tow-boat's  creeping  course, 

The  roaring  engine,  blazing  like 
Th'  Apocalyptic  horse. 

The  farmer  plowing  up  the  sod, 

Or  driving  forth  the  wain  ; 
The  orchards  filled  with  ripening  fruit, 

The  barns  with  garnered  grain; 
The  cattle  browsing  on  the  mead, 

The  song-birds  circling  nigh, 
And  the  smoke  of  scores  of  chimneys 

Drifting  toward  the  sky. 

The  coal  shafts  peering  from  the  soil, 

For  distant  miles  around, 
Show  what  a  host  of  people  toil 

Deep  in  the  hollow  ground. 
What  countless  tons  of  mineral 

Lie  under  cot  and  field — 
No  harvest  on  the  surface  can 

Such  precious  treasure  yield. 

The  loom  that  weaves  the  maiden's  garb, 
The  wheel  that  drives  the  car, 

The  forge  that  fills  the  arsenal 
With  thunderbolts  of  war ; 


CAMPBELL'S  LEDGE.  69 

The  mill  that  shapes  the  forest  logs 

For  keels  that  plow  the  brine, 
And  cities  that  the  land  adorn 

Depend  upon  the  mine. 

And  the  wise  man,  in  his  vision, 

Beholds  the  coming  day, 
When,  here,  a  new  metropolis 

Shall  wield  imperial  sway ; 
When,  here,  the  trades  shall  center, 

And  like  the  power  above, 
Shall  lavish  on  the  pleasant  land 

The  golden  shower  of  Jove. 

When  the  blows  of  million  hammers 

Shall  clank  on  native  ore, 
And  countless  fires  of  furnaces 

Their  iron  rivers  pour ; 
When  palaces  shall  tower  aloft, 

As  fair  as  classic  piles, 
Which  in  the  palmy  days  of  Rome 

Adorned  her  street  for  miles. 

Wlier]  barges  of  the  rarest  speed 

Upon  her  stream  shall  float, 
And  richer  far,  in  silk  and  gems, 

Than  Cleopatra's  boat. 
When  genius  shall  augment  her  stores 

With  works  of  finest  art, 


70  THE  PAST. 

With  forms  and  hues  that  mimic  life, 
And  half  its  grace  impart. 

When  all  that  nature  offers, 

And  all  that  man  contrives, 
Shall  make  the  valley  nourish 

A  million  human  lives; 
And  the  wisdom  of  the  ages, 

And  the  tribute  of  the  climes, 
And  the  homage  of  the  sections 

Shall  crown  the  blessed  times. 


THE  PAST. 

Brood  not  o'er  the  retrospection 
Of  the  distant,  fading  years — 

More  than  half  the  varied  vision 
Will  be  veiled  by  bitter  tears  ; 

And  the  echoes  of  lost  voices 
Will  sound  sadly  on  the  ears. 

Childhood,  docile  and  believing, 
With  a  step  so  free  and  light, 

Never  gained  the  boon  it  longed  for, 
Never  caught  those  colors  bright, 

Which,  in  rainbows,  gilt  the  heavens, 
And  then  vanished  from  the  sight. 


THE   PAST.  11 

Fond  affections,  sown  in  promise, 

Teeming  in  a  genial  breast, 
Did  but  wither  on  the  instant 

That  their  bloom  was  manifest — 
And  some  ever-baleful  shadow 

Seemed  to  dim  Hope's  rising  crest. 

Young  ambition,  that  so  gayly 

Started  for  its  shining  goal, 
Has  been  checked  by  chance  or  error, 

Or  oppressed  by  cruel  dole ; 
Or  the  burthen  of  contention 

Has  subdued  the  soaring  soul. 

Rural  sports,  once  deemed  attractive, 
Haunts  amidst  the  bloom  of  flowers, 

Radiant  charms  that  pleased  the  senses 
In  the  buoyant,  sunny  hours, 

Have  departed,  like  illusions, 
And  will  never  more  be  ours. 

Farewell,  then,  the  life  that's  perished ; 

Let  oblivion  o'er  it  steal  ! 
With  our  faces  fronting  forward, 

Let  us  make  our  last  appeal 
To  the  ever-looming  future, 

And  its  beautiful  ideal. 

From  the  proverbs  of  the  poets, 
From  the  maxims  of  the  grove, 


T2  CROQUET. 

From  the  tenets  of  that  Gospel, 
Whose  apocalypse  is  love, 

Let  us  learn  the  serpent's  wisdom, 
And  the  pureness  of  the  dove. 


CROQUET. 

Behold  the  play,  that's  called  croquet ! 

So  gentle  and  exciting"; 
That  yet  commands  the  feet  and  hands, 

Both  skill  and  mirth  uniting. 

See  how  they're  fixed,  the  sexes  mixed 
In  most  promiscuous  places, 

To  wield  the  maul,  or  watch  the  ball, 
With  wry  or  radiant  faces. 

And  note  the  smiles,  and  freaks  and  wiles, 

And  Babel-like  discussion, 
The  graceful  sway,  and  gestures  gay 

Attending  each  percussion. 

See !  how  they  aim,  to  win  the  game, 
The  strokes  so  deftly  dealing — 

Now  faint  the  blows,  now  loud  echoes 
Through  all  the  air  are  pealing. 


CROQUET.  *J3 

Both  sides  contrive  the  balls  to  drive 

Together  or  asunder — 
Beyond  the  close  to  send  their  foes, 

Their  friends,  the  arches  under. 

Alternate  swings,  alternate  rings 

The  hammer  that  enforces 
The  missiles,  round,  along  the  ground, 

In  straight  or  errant  courses. 

And  mark  the  rout,  as  one  goes  out; 

Or  else  becomes  a  Rover, 
And  wanders  free,  with  reckless  glee, 

The  wicket-field  all  over. 

See !  how  they  press,  with  eagerness, 

As  comes  the  final  crisis ; 
How  flash  their  eyes,  how  sharp  their  cries, 

Like  gamblers  at  their  vices. 

The  game  is  done,  and  they  have  won 
Who  show'd  the  highest  talents 

For  passing  arcs,  and  hitting  marks, 
And  flirting  with  their  gallants. 

For  Cupid's  fire  seems  to  inspire 

The  zeal  of  this  diversion, 
That  yields  the  Fair  such  wholesome  air 

And  muscular  exertion. 
7 


U  THE  MUTILATED    TREE. 


THE  MUTILATED  TREE. 

I  passed  along  the  promenade — 

The  Pruner's  axe  had  strewn 
The  swelling  boughs  amidst  the  mire  ; 

And  to  a  post  had  hewn 
The  lofty  tree,  whose  shadow  cooled 

The  heat  of  Summer  noon. 

And  it  was  a  scene  to  sadden 

A  gentle  eye  to  tears ; 
And  one,  for  which,  incessant  gibes 

Will  plague  the  weary  ears 
Of  those,  who  for  a  whim,  destroyed 

The  darling  growth  of  years. 

For  who  can  gaze  upon  the  wreck 

Of  the  Linden  in  its  prime, 
And  mourn  not  for  the  sheltering  limbs 

That  towered  above  sublime, 
And,  through  their  verdant  leaves,  poured  forth 

The  warblers'  pleasant  chime? 

Alas!  of  all  its  beauty  shorn, 

It's  doomed  to  swift  decay, 
And  like  the  cursed  tree  of  old, 

It  mars  the  light  of  day — 
While  bird  and  child  its  ghostly  trunk 

Avoid  with  sore  dismay. 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE    YEAR   1866.         75 


THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR  1866. 

The  seasons  have  their  circuit  made, 
The  bud,  the  fruit,  the  flower  displayed, 

Decay  and  torpor  drear — 
And  thousands  have  beheld  the  dawn, 
And  thousands  to  the  grave  have  gone, 

Within  the  vanished  year. 

There's  been  the  average  guilt  and  worth 
And  wealth  and  want  upon  the  earth ; 

While  knowledge  has  progressed 
Amidst  alternate  peace  and  war, 
And  shed  its  light  both  near  and  far, 

Like  sunshine  east  and  west. 

Gigantic  thoughts,  gigantic  schemes, 
By  which  the  human  mind  redeems 

Slow  nature's  latent  powers ; 
And  labors,  that  in  days  agone 
Old  Bards  would  feign  the  Gods  had  done, 

Have  marked  the  faded  hours. 

Through  Alpine  rocks  the  tunnel  bores ; 
Beneath  the  lake  the  hydrant  pours, 
A  city  to  sustain ; 


76  THE    CLOSE   OF  THE   YEAR   1866. 

And  bridges,  built  of  wire  and  stone, 
Athwart  two  rivers  vast  are  thrown, 
To  speed  the  fiery  train. 

The  grand  canal,  that's  meant  to  wed 
The  Middle  ocean  with  the  Red, 

Is  urged  with  added  force. 
And  soon,  through  rough,  unsettled  States, 
They'll  seek  Pacific's  golden  gates 

Upon  the  iron-horse. 

An  armored  ship  has  crossed  the  sea, 
And  rode  the  storm  right  gallantly, 

The  Muscovite  to  greet; 
While,  in  return,  the  realm  of  Czars 
Has  honored  well  the  flag  of  stars 

In  palace,  fort,  and  fleet. 

Three  Yachts,  that  lately  turned  their  prows 
With  daring  towards  the  port  of  Cowes, 

An  ocean  race  to  run, 
With  streamers  spread,  and  swelling  sails, 
Swift  flying,  'fore  the  western  gales, 

Success  and  glory  won. 

And  under  the  Atlantic  waves, 
Amongst  the  hidden  coral  caves, 

The  conscious  Cable  lies, 
Informing,  through  its  wondrous  line, 
All  races,  like  some  power  divine, 

In  language  of  the  skies. 


THE    CLOSE    OF  THE   TEAR    1866.         71 

Portentous  signs  have  been  displayed : 
A  star,  that  blazed,  was  seen  to  fade, 

As  if  it  were  consumed. 
And  showers  of  meteoric  stones 
Shot  wildly  cross  the  upper  zones, 

And  half  the  night  illumed. 

Disasters  followed  car  and  craft, 

And  Stafford's,  Yorkshire's  bursted  shaft, 

That  shook  the  counties  round. 
While  silk-producing  Hindostan 
Has  seen  the  starved  lie  cold  and  wan, 

Unburied  o'er  the  ground. 

Terrific  fires  have  towns  devoured, 

And  that  mailed  ship  which  proudly  towered 

'Gainst  Sumter's  cannonade. 
And  Cyclones  o'er  the  prairies  whirled, 
And  roofs  and  walls  like  playthings  hurled, 

And  frightful  havoc  made. 

That  Pest,  resistless,  which  at  times 
Revisits  all  sublunar  climes, 

Has  touched  our  shores  again ; 
And  through  the  air,  in  silence,  goes, 
Dispensing  its  appalling  woes 

Amongst  the  haunts  of  men. 

The  Prussian  on  the  battle-field 
Tore  Venice'  crest  from  Hapsburg's  shield : 
While  Europe  trembling  gazed, 

7* 


78  THE   CLOSE  OF   THE    YEAR   1866. 

As  thrones  were  emptied  at  his  word, 
And  armies  fell  before  his  sword, 
And  tower  and  hamlet  blazed. 

From  'neath  the  famed  Rialto's  arc, 
And  from  the  portals  of  Saint  Mark, 

Is  heard  the  glad  refrain — 
As  down  the  palace-lined  canal 
Winds  Freedom's  gorgeous  carnival — 

"Bucentaur  weds  again." 

That  pleasant  Isle  where  Minos  ruled, 
And  where  the  Cretan  Jove  was  schooled, 

And  splendid  cities  stood, 
Is  scourged  by  Moslem  brand  and  steel ! 
And  Christian  faith  and  classic  zeal 

Contend  in  seas  of  blood. 

The  Chinese  rebel  war  prevails 
That  o'er  the  broad,  celestial  vales 

Swept  like  the  dread  Typhoon. 
And  in  Japan's  imperial  hall 
Great  chiefs  around  the  gloomy  pall, 

Die  for  the  dead  Tycoon. 

The  Pope,  of  foreign  aid  bereft, 

The  world  supposed  he  would  have  left 

His  city  of  renown: 
But  wary  of  the  plots  of  man, 
He  yet  commands  the  Vatican, 

And  wears  the  triple  crown. 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE    YEAR   1866.         79 

And  Paraguay,  below  the  line, 
Brazilians  and  the  Argentine, 

All  thought  of  peace  deride ; 
And  where  the  ancient  Incas  reigned, 
Unequal  strife  the  States  maintained 

Against  Castilian  pride. 

The  Austrian  Prince,  of  late  has  grown 
Enamored  of  his  tottering  throne, 

And  hesitates  to  go ; 
While  France  reluctantly  withdraws 
The  bay'nets  that  upheld  his  cause 

In  thankless  Mexico. 

The  Fenian  Irish  lately  made 
A  wild  and  unsupported  raid 

Upon  our  neighbor's  coast ; 
And  in  the  gallant  Em'rald  Isle, 
Old  English  power  and  English  guile 

Disarm  the  rising  host. 

Again,  the  Savage  warwhoop  sounds, 
And  from  Fort  Kearney's  distant  mounds 

Is  borne  a  tale  of  woe ; 
Of  ambuscade,  and  tortures  dire, 
Of  dripping  scalp,  and  fagot  fire, 

That  mark  the  fiendish  foe. 

The  loyal  States,  with  potent  voice, 
Have  offered  to  the  South  her  choice: 
With  pledges  to  return, 


80         THE    CLOSE   OF   THE    YEAR   1866. 

Or  stay  without  the  temple  door, 
And  sackcloth  wear,  and  ashes  pour, 
And  sacrifices  burn. 

Ethiops  have  not  changed  their  skin, 
And  woolly  head  and  tender  shin 

Their  origin  denote — 
But  they  are  bettered  in  estate, — 
In  Boston  they  can  legislate, 

In  Washington  can  vote. 

The  chief  who  led  the  great  revolt 
Still  expiates  his  heinous  fault 

In  prison's  penal  gloom. 
And  he  that  sought  in  desert  clime 
A  refuge  for  assassin's  crime, 

Comes  o'er  the  sea  to  doom. 

And  thus  has  sped  the  storied  year, 
Which  some  believed  the  Bible  Seer 

Predicted  as  the  last : 
That  it  would  bear  upon  its  course 
The  earth  and  every  mortal  force 

Into  the  finished  past. 

To  some,  indeed,  an  end  it  brought ; 
To  others  it  sad  lessons  taught, 

Who  folly  had  for  guide  : 
And  fortunes  wrecked,  ambition's  claims, 
And  broken  hearts,  and  cruel  shames 

Are  floating  down  its  tide. 


THE   DEATH    OF  PRINCE.  81 

While  others  found  it  ever  bright, 

And  marked  its  days  with  pebbles  white, 

Dropped  in  the  honored  urns — 
Let  us  with  laurels  green  endow 
That  hopeful,  beaming,  Janus  brow 

That  to  the  future  turns. 


THE  DEATH  OF  PRINCE. 

Prince  was  indeed  the  prince  of  dogs ! 

The  dearest  in  the  town — 
His  colors  of  the  richest  dye, 

His  hair  like  eider-down. 

His  body  small,  was  ob-ovate, 

As  Botanists  would  say: 
A  two-inch  tail  was  all  he  had, 

The  rest  he'd  wagged  away. 

He  seemed  quite  fat  and  pulpy, 
And  waddled  as  he  walked — 

His  mouth  wore  all  the  meaning  of 
A  child's,  before  it  talked. 

His  eyes  were  set  like  brilliants, 

Beneath  his  forehead  low, 
And  had  as  soft  and  warm  a  light 

As  any  girl's  I  know. 


82  THE  DRIVE. 

He  died  in  early  puppyhood — 
And  ere  the  morn  was  past — 

A  fatal  error  in  his  meal 
Did  make  that  meal  his  last. 

His  death-throes  were  attended 
By  one,  his  saddest  friend  ! 

And  other  eyes  were  wet  with  tears 
That  saw  his  latter  end ! 

His  little  corpse  lies  in  the  yard, 
Among  the  worms  below ; 

His  little  soul  has  soared  above 
To  where  the  good  dogs  go  ! 


THE  DRIVE. 

Midst  the  prancing, 

And  the  dancing, 
And  advancing !  what  excitement  at  the  start! 

Horses  heady — 

Ho !  there,  steady — 
Now,  then,  ready — we're  forward  like  a  dart. 

'Twas  late  at  night, 

The  sky  was  white 

With  mellow  light,  spent  by  the  Autumn  moon 


THE  DRIVE.  83 

The  milky-way, 
With  glist'ning  spray, 
'Most  made  it  day,  eclipsed  at  early  noon. 

The  wind  was  still, 

And  farm  and  mill 
On  plain  and  hill,  scarce  yielded  sign  or  sound, 

Save  that  our  wheels, 

And  horses'  heels 
Sent  rattling  peals  over  the  lonesome  ground. 

On,  on,  we  sped, 

And  overhead, 
The  dust,  we  shed,  rolled  up  in  silver  clouds ; 

The  countless  posts 

Seemed  mighty  hosts 
Of  noiseless  ghosts,  that  passed  us  in  their  shrouds. 

Each  little  stream 

Did  like  a  gleam 
Of  lightning  seem,  so  quick  'twas  lost  from  view ; 

The  forest  tall, 

With  leaves  o'er  all, 
Spread  like  a  pall,  and  like  a  phantom  flew. 

The  ricks  and  mows, 

And  ungeared  plows, 
And  orchard  boughs,  with  apples  bending  low, 

And  sleeping  kine, 

And  railroad  line, 
And  tavern  sign  whirled  by  us  like  a  show. 


84  THE   DRIVE. 

Up  toilsome  steeps, 

Cross  level  sweeps, 
With  fearful  leaps,  we  cleft  the  frosty  night; 

O'er  yielding  sedge, 

O'er  stony  ridge, 
O'er  lofty  bridge  we  kept  our  onward  flight. 

By  corners  turned, 

By  ditches  spurned, 
The  axles  burned  upon  the  winding  road; 

And  smoking  wet, 

With  heat  and  sweat, 
Exhaustless  yet,  our  nags  their  mettle  showed. 

Still  on  they  pressed, 

As  if  possessed, 
As  if  a  rest  they'd  never  need  again — 

Fast  and  faster, 

Till  at  last  there, 
Some  disaster  must  break  the  fearful  strain. 

Not  such  canter 

Made  O'Sbanter, 
Who  did  banter  her  crew  and  Cutty  Sark, 

As  when  so  soon, 

The  drunken  loon 
Crossed  o'er  the  Doon,  on  Maggie,  in  the  dark. 

Not  Gilpin  John 
So  scoured  along, 
As  crowds  looked  on,  with  merry  shout  and  laugh, 


THE  DRIVE.  85 

When,  like  the  wind, 
He  left  behind, 
In  wondering  mind,  his  hungry  better-half. 

Not  such  career 

Had  Paul  Revere, 
When  far  and  clear,  flashed  from  the  old  Church  tower, 

The  signal,  bright, 

That  lit  his  flight 
To  rouse  the  fight  against  stern  England's  power. 

Not  such  a  race, 

Not  such  a  chase, 
Did  Cheyney  pace,  when  by  old  Sconnell's  line, 

He  bore  the  word: 

"At  Trimble's  ford 
The  English  horde  have  crossed  the  Brandy  wine." 

One  might  have  thought, 

With  tidings  fraught 
Of  battle  fought,  we  moved  so  rapidly — 

One  might  have  thought, 

That  we  had  wrought 
Some  deed  that  ought  from  justice  make  us  flee. 

But  charm  nor  fear, 

Nor  threat  nor  cheer, 
In  front  or  rear,  seemed  urging  us  a  pace ; 

And  in  view  then, 

Nothing  human, 
Man  nor  woman  appeared  in  any  place. 

8 


]  THE   DRIVE. 

And  thus  we  went, 

Half  hours  were  spent, 
And  no  intent  explained  our  mighty  haste — 

A  mystery 

Of  deviltry 
We  could  not  see  our  curious  journey  graced. 

But  with  gable, 

Tall  and  sable, 
Soon  a  stable  betrayed  the  hidden  cause  ! 

For  there  each  horse 

Stopt  in  his  course, 
As  if  his  force  had  shifted  to  his  jaws. 

And  now,  forsooth ! 

Behold  the  truth, 
Ye  frivolous  youth !  who  late  abroad  do  roam — 

If  you  want  speed, 

Then  train  your  steed 
To  hope  for  feed,  when  you  are  bound  for  home. 


SCONNELLTOWN.  87 


SCONNELLTOWN.(6) 

Whoever  heard  of  Sconnelltown  ? — 

A  village  long  ago, 
That  on  the  heights  of  Bradford  stood, 

With  Brandywine  below. 
They  say  it  was  a  thriving  place, 

When  in  its  day  of  palm, 
Cornwallis  lunched  his  army  there, 

Marching  to  Birmingham. 

It  was  there  the  Quakers,  driven 

By  battle's  loud  refrain, 
From  their  ancient  house  of  worship, 

Came  near  the  foe  again  ; 
And  devoted  to  their  service, 

Within  their  lowly  walls, 
They  silently  awaited  him, 

As  Romans  did  the  Gauls. 

'Twas  there  the  weaver  Sconnell  lived, 

Who  chose  this  lofty  site — 
Perhaps  as  classic  founders  did, 

From  birds'  auspicious  flight — 
And  there  plowed  the  circling  furrow, 

To  fix  the  metes  and  bounds ; 
And  lured  the  venturous  emigrants 

To  settle  on  his  grounds. 


88  S  C  ONNELL  TO  WN. 

And  for  several  leagues,  at  least, 

There  was  no  greater  town — 
For  the  Borough  had  not  risen, 

And  Upland  tended  down. 
The  avenues,  perchance,  were  few, 

Nor  garnished  by  the  arts, 
Nor  thronged  with  curious  tourists  then, 

Or  trade  with  foreign  parts. 

The  people  were  not  wealthy  then, 

And  made  a  small  display, 
But  doubtless  had  the  passions,  too, 

That  we  have  got  to-day. 
And  if  their  sphere  was  circumscribed, 

Perhaps  their  pride  was  great, 
And  what  to  us  would  humble  seem, 

Might  seem  to  them  like  state. 

And  they  likely  had  their  classes 

And  arbitrary  ways ; 
The  rich  who  were  ever  idle, 

The  poor  on  holidays. 
And  there  were  certain  crafts  in  vogue, 

That  shared  the  various  toil — 
Some  plied  their  cunning  handiwork, 

And  some  delved  in  the  soil. 

But  politics  and  fancy  stocks 
Did  ne'er  disturb  their  ease; 

And  they  rarely  heard  of  lawyers, 
Or  courts  of  common  pleas. 


SCONNELLTOWN.  89 

The  grandeur  of  our  cities, 

The  magic  power  of  steam, 
The  lightning  flash  of  telegraphs 

Ne'er  entered  in  their  dream. 

But  where's  the  pleasant  village  now  ? 

Its  business  and  its  fetes, 
And  its  denizens  and  dwellings, 

And  animated  streets  ? 
For  near  these  rugged  rocks  it  stood, 

Where  Elecampane  blooms ; 
Yet  scarce  a  vestige  can  be  found 

Of  tenements  or  tombs. 

No  garden  here  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 

No  loose  and  scattered  rails, 
No  broken  roof  or  tumbling  joist 

The  curious  eye  bewails. 
The  wrecked  and  mossy  timber's  gone, 

And  sunk  the  basement  walls  ; 
No  tott'ring  ivied  chimney-stack 

A  ruined  hearth  recalls. 

A  mound  and  ditch  not  far  apart, 

Round  which  the  harvest  grows, 
Are  all  the  landmarks  of  the  place 

The  antiquary  knows. 
Near  these  the  wheelwright  had  his  bench, 

Or  cobbler  had  his  room, 
Or  the  blacksmith  swung  his  hammer, 

Or  weaver  shook  his  loom. 
8* 


90  SGONNELL  TO  WN. 

Or  there  the  well  of  water  was 

Which  women  went  to  draw, 
Like  her  who  in  Samaria 

The  blessed  Saviour  saw. 
Or  there  the  awful  pedagogue 

Enforced  his  learned  facts — 
The  mystery  dark  of  figures, 

The  canons  of  syntax. 

But  eager  search  can't  tell  us  now 

On  what  specific  spot 
The  gayest  mansion  had  its  seat, 

Or  where  the  meanest  cot ; 
Or  what  resorts  were  chosen  once 

For  sport  and  revelry ;  ' 
Or  where  the  moonlight  lovers  strolled 

Unto  the  trysting  tree. 

Or  where  the  pious  shepherd  poured 

'Gainst  sin  his  earnest  wrath, 
And  taught  his  little  flock  to  find 

The  straight  and  narrow  path. 
Or  where,  at  eve,  the  old  men  sat, 

And  daily  toil  discussed ; 
Or  whither  went  the  mourning  train, 

When  dust  was  borne  to  dust. 

Or  where  the  post-boy's  winding  horn, 
And  horse's  clanking  shoes 

Brought  out  the  gaping  crowd  to  hear 
The  latest  monthly  news. 


S  CONN  ELL  TO  WN.  9 1 

Or  where  the  boist'rous  men  were  kept, 

If  any  there  were  known, 
Who,  in  the  rites  of  Bacchus,  oft 

Thrust  reason  from  her  throne. 

And  where  are  now  the  populace  ? 

How  did  they  disappear  ? 
Did  they  slowly  pass  and  perish, 

As  does  the  fading  year  ? 
Or  like  the  Aborigines, 

Who  once  the  soil  possessed, 
Scatter  as  the  autumnal  leaves? 

Or  vanish  in  the  West  ? 

Or  did  some  grievous  pest  or  fire 

Destroy  them  in  a  breath  ? 
Or  some  ruthless,  grim  invader 

Pursue  them  to  the  death? 
Or  did  they  make  their  exodus 

As  captives  from  the  land, 
To  weep  beneath  their  silent  harps, 

Upon  a  foreign  strand  ? 

For  tradition  ne'er  related 

What  finished  their  career ; 
We  only  know  they  flourished  once, 

And  are  no  longer  here. 
And  many  winter  storms  have  burst 

Upon  this  stony  mount ; 
And  many  generations  passed 

To  meet  their  great  account ; 


92  SCONNELL  TO  WN. 

And  many  summer  birds  have  built 

Amidst  the  bushy  thorn  ; 
And  many  precious  crops  have  waved 

Where  ripens  yonder  corn; 
And  many  flowers  have  graced  the  hill, 

Whose  species  died  away ; 
And  many  strides  the  world  has  made 

Since  that  forgotten  day. 

The  plowman  old,  who  turns  the  glebe, 

Would  deem  you  asked  in  jest, 
If  e'er  he  saw  a  hamlet  stand 

Upon  this  lonely  crest. 
His  fathers,  who  are  in  their  graves, 

Its  thrift  remembered  well, 
But  when,  or  how,  it  ceased  to  be 

They  never  seemed  to  tell. 

Around  a  modern  school-house  now, 

The  boys  are  shooting  game; 
Whose  vacant  walls  are  on  its  site, 

And  keep  alive  its  name. 
And  some  locust  and  some  oak-trees 

There  stretch  their  verdant  limbs, 
And  as  the  evening  breezes  blow, 

Sound  sad  as  fun'ral  hymns. 

As  if  nature  had  a  spirit, 

Which  mourns  for  human  woes, 

And  that  her  solitude  prevails 
Where  village  murmurs  rose. 


THE  SKATERS.  93 

And  you,  who  wander  'cross  the  seas, 

In  search  of  cities  old, 
That  in  their  pride  were  swept  away 

With  half  their  story  told ; 

And  that,  once,  of  wealth  and  splendor, 

Had  spread  o'er  earth  their  fame, 
Yet  scarcely  left  a  wreck  behind, 

Or  more  than  empty  name ; 
You  here  may  learn  how  shadows  thin 

Mere  mortal  hopes  will  crown ; 
How  cities,  like  our  lives,  may  have 

The  fate  of  Sconnelltown. 


THE  SKATERS. 

Ho  !  look  at  the  merrisome  skaters, 
As  they're  coursing  the  circuit  around, 

Ami  in  parties  are  swinging, 

While  their  irons  are  ringing, 

And  their  laughter  is  flinging 
A  glow  of  delight  o'er  the  bright  crystal  ground. 

It's  little  they're  heeding  the  danger, 
And  it's  little  they  care  for  the  cold  ; 


94  THE  SKATERS. 

The  soft  ice  may  be  weeping — 
The  north  wind  may  be  sweeping — 
Or  the  sun  may  be  keeping 
Behind  the  gray  clouds,  in  his  chariot  of  gold. 

The  skaters  secure  on  their  runners, 
And  incased  in  an  armor  of  fur, 

To  no  fears  are  appealing — 

And  no  chilliness  feeling, 

But  with  pleasure  are  reeling, 
As  if  they'd  the  clime  of  the  orange  and  myrrh. 

Though  the  fields  are  frory  and  pallid, 
And  no  longer  the  flowerets  blow, 

Yet  the  glee  of  the  skaters, 

And  the  flashing  of  gaiters, 

And  applause  of  spectators 
Might  startle  old  Summer  from  his  grave  in  the  snow. 

And  mark,  that  the  glassy  area, 
Where  the  sexes  commingling  are  seen, 

With  no  evil  is  teeming, 

With  no  rout  unbeseeming  ; 

And  yet  health,  freshly  beaming, 
Still  follows  the  measures  in  which  they  careen. 

And  beauty  grows  ruddy  and  fairer, 
In  this  gayest  of  muscular  plays : 


THE  SKATERS.  95 

For  the  wind  so  embraces, 
And  expresses  the  graces 
Of  the  spirit  and  faces, 
That  love  is  inspired  by  the  witching  displays. 

The  blended  array  of  rare  colors, 
And  the  picturesque  nutter  of  dress, 

Feathers  tossing  ambitious 

Over  smiles  so  delicious, 

Although  elsewhere  capricious, 
Here  excite  an  emotion  no  chance  can  repress. 

The  strangely  mixed  masses  of  people, 
The  odd  phases  of  figure  and  style, 

The  infant,  like  Aztec, 

And  old  adults  elastic, 

In  a  jumble  fantastic 
Might  even  a  Cynic's  stern  rigor  beguile. 

And  neither  the  desert  nor  drama, 
Nor  the  capers  of  holiday  fetes, 

Nor  the  forms  of  devotions, 

Nor  the  air,  nor  the  oceans 

Show  such  beautiful  motions 
As  theirs,  who  perform  in  this  feast  of  the  skates. 

Each  foot,  with  an  ease  that  surprises, 
Is  penciling  those  elegant  lines, 


96  THE  SKATERS. 

For  which  artists  have  striven, 
For  which  sages  have  given 
Hours  belonging  to  Heaven, 
To  find  their  equations  in  fluxional  signs. 

And  thus  with  a  voluble  swiftness, 
They  are  hourly  propelling  along, 
And  like  acrobats  veering, 
With  such  skillfulness  steering, 
And  with  zeal  persevering, 
As  though  in  accord  with  a  jubilant  song. 


Let  the  swelt'ring  dancers  trip  it 
On  the  lighted,  dusty  floor — 

We  shall,  in  the  purer  breezes, 
Glibly  skim  the  lakelet  o'er : 

While  the  welkin  shakes  with  shouting, 
As  we  seem  to  sail  or  soar. 

Let  them  rock  upon  their  carpets, 
By  the  glowing  anthracite — 

We  prefer  the  grim  horizon ; 

Woods  agleam  with  crystal  light : 

And  the  sport  that  thrills  the  pulses, 
Where  the  lake  is  icy  white. 

Let  them  read  their  tales  fictitious, 
Let  them  puzzle  o'er  their  chess — 


THE  SKATERS.  *  97 

We  will  face  the  scowls  of  winter, 

And  provoke  his  rough  caress, 
And,  like  Jacob  and  the  Angel, 

With  him  wrestle  till  he  bless. 

Let  the  lover,  in  the  parlor, 

Plead  his  passion  on  his  knees — 
Yet  the  maids  are  not  so  haughty, 

Nor  so  difficult  to  please, 
With  the  slippery  ice  beneath  them, 

And  with  nothing  near  to  seize — 
When  they  naively  seek  your  elbows 

As  their  safest  guarantees, 
And  still  cling  about  your  person, 

Like  the  sweet  Clematides. 

Let  the  sleighers  on  the  highways 

Ring  their  tiny,  tinkling  bells: 
While  they're  shiv'ring  on  their  cushions, 

And  their  laugh  in  mock'ry  swells — 
Our  unshackled,  active  vigor 

Every  morbid  humor  quells  : 
Sends  the  heated  blood  a-dancing, 

Like  a  cup  of  old  Moselle's. 

Note  the  long,  repeated  music 

Of  the  rapid  skater's  heel, 
While  he's  flying,  forth  and  backward, 

As  if  wings  were  on  his  heel ; 


98  THE   SKATERS. 

Humming  o'er  the  shining  surface, 
With  a  rich,  metallic  peal ; 

Like  the  silver  thrum  of  harp-strings, 
That  one  hears  in  old  Castile. 

See  him  as  he's  deftly  "rolling," 

Poising  on  alternate  feet, 
Bending,  waving,  right  and  leftward, 

Every  limb  in  posture  meet ; 
Scarce  a  muscle  seems  to  labor, 

Every  stroke  with  grace  replete. 

Let  them  sing  in  classic  metre, 

In  those  rich  Bucolic  strains, 
Of  the  gentle  games  of  summer ; 

And  the  matches  of  the  swains 
By  the  shade-trees,  in  the  sunshine, 

With  the  flocks  that  browse  the  hills, 
Midst  the  fragrant  breath  of  blossoms, 

By  the  lucid,  wandering  rills. 

Let  them  sing  the  chariot  races, 

When  the  smoking  axles  roll ; 
When  the  daring  craft  of  victors 

Urge  their  steeds  beyond  the  goal. 
Let  them  sing,  in  sweet  Provencal, 

Of  the  gallant  knights  who  strove, 
Tilting  lances  in  the  tourney, 

For  the  smiles  of  lady  love. 


TO  A    CERTAIN  GOLDEN  EAGLE.        99 

But  that  great  and  princely  Singer, 

Native  to  the  Mantuan  moors, 
And  the  Bard  of  Pythian  measure, 

And  the  pleasant  Troubadours, 
Never  sang  of  sports  more  genial 

Than  these  sports  that  winter  cheer, 
Than  the  skaters'  graceful  frolic 

On  the  smoothly  frozen  mere. 


TO  A  CERTAIN  GOLDEN  EAGLE  AND  A  CERTAIN 
WILD  GOOSE. 

Hail!  to  you,  monarchic  Eagle  ! 

Whose  scream  the  flock  appalls ; 
And  hail !  to  you,  historic  Goose, 

Whose  cackle  scared  the  Gauls ! 

You !  sacred  to  old  Jupiter, 

And  you !  unto  his  queen, 
You !  the  emblem  of  the  nations, 

And  you !  of  the  cuisine  ! 

And  you  were  fledged  and  feathered  both, 

Where  white  foot  never  trod  ; 
And  you  have  sailed  the  yielding  air — 

And  you  have  sailed  the  flood. 


100      TO  A    CERTAIN   GOLDEN  EAGLE. 

With  eyes  that  scorn  the  blazing  sun — 

And  bill  that  loves  the  brine — 
You  seem  but  hapless  exiles, 

Beneath  the  garden  vine. 
* 
For  useless  are  those  talons  now, 

That  rived  the  living  prey : 
And  useless  are  those  skinny  oars 

That  rowed  you  o'er  the  bay. 

As  on  your  restive  bosoms  now, 
You  fold  your  worthless  wings, 

Above  you  far  in  triumph  soars 
The  meanest  bird  that  sings. 

The  quills  that  bore  you  onward  once, 
Cross  distant  waves  and  sand, 

Now  mark  the  flight  of  fancy  o'er 
The  misty  spirit  land. 


THE    OLD   SCHOOL-HOUSE.  101 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

Oh  !  spare  that  ancient  building, 

With  the  iron  fence  before — 
A  thousand  boys  were  tutored  there, 

In  the  halcyon  days  of  yore. 
Oh  !  touch  not  a  single  pebble 

On  its  yellow  painted  walls, 
For  each  has  a  separate  story 

Which  our  early  life  recalls. 

Its  very  soil  is  sacred  too, 

Oh,  save  it  from  the  spade  ! 
It  was  there  our  village  fathers, 

In  their  adolescence,  played. 
It's  haunted  by  the  memories 

Of  some  fifty  years  or  more, 
With  the  charms  of  Alma  Hater 

For  the  many  sons  it  bore. 

Look  around  upon  the  country, 

Through  civil  scenes  and  strife — 
Its  Alumni  share  the  honors 

In  all  the  walks  of  life. 
The  Doctor,  with  his  healing  hand, 

The  Statesman  in  his  place, 
The  Lawyer  pondering  quibbles, 

The  Parson  preaching  grace. 
9* 


102  THE    OLD   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

And  behind  the  Merchant's  counter, 

Beside  the  Farmer's  team ; 
The  Blacksmith  with  his  brawny  arm, 

The  Poet  in  his  dream ; 
On  the  Colorado  prairies, 

Where  roam  the  buffalo, 
And  the  savage  trails  the  pale  face, 

And  mutilates  his  foe. 

In  the  trains  of  footsore  emigrants, 

Amidst  their  famish'd  kine ; 
On  the  decks  of  coasting  shallops, 

Whence  fishers  drop  the  line  ; 
And  beyond  the  far  Sierras, 

By  El  Dorado's  main, 
Where  the  miner  builds  his  cabin, 

And  rakes  his  golden  grain. 

On  the  bosom  of  the  waters, 

And  on  the  border  land ; 
Where'er  our  gallant  vessels  float, 

Where'er  our  armies  stand : — 
Everywhere,  some  grateful  friend 

That  ancient  pile  reveres, 
Who'd  learn  of  its  decline  and  fall 

With  grief  akin  to  tears. 

For  right  well  does  he  remember 

That  juvenile  resort 
Which  gave  his  supple  faculties 

Alternate  pain  and  sport. 


THE   OLD   SCHOOL-HOUSE.  103 

The  teacher  with  his  learned  brow, 

The  threatening  ferule  near  ; 
The  buzzing  of  the  busy  mass, 

The  whisper  and  the  leer. 

The  text-book  opened  at  the  hour, 

The  classes  in  a  row — 
The  proper  answers,  quick  and  loud, 

The  guesses  murmured  low; 
The  slate  defaced  with  furtive  games, 

The  copy  blotted  o'er  ; 
The  bright  and  battered  drinking-cup, 

The  bucket  on  the  floor. 

And  the  pop-gun  made  of  goosequill, 

The  paper-box  for  flies ; 
The  desk-lid  primed  with  pencil  dust 

To  close  the  freshman's  eyes. 
The  teacher's  casual  absence, 

And  anarchy's  brief  reign — 
The  discordant  swell  of  voices, 

Loud  roaring  like  the  main. 

The  slamming  of  the  stools  and  doors, 

The  horn  books  in  the  air ; 
The  water  dashed  upon  the  stove, 

Ink  on  the  cushioned  chair. 
The  painful  and  demure  surprise 

Which  greets  the  teacher  soon  ; 
The  boist'rous  shout  of  joy  and  mirth 

That  welcomes  in  the  noon. 


104  THE    OLD   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

The  hoop,  the  bow  and  arrow, 

The  soaring  of  the  swing, 
The  humming  of  the  corner  ball, 

The  marbles  in  the  ring. 
The  kite  sailing  o'er  the  poplars, 

The  top  upon  the  pave, 
The  cabin  roofed  with  autumn  leaves, 

The  snow-constructed  cave. 

The  rope  sleds  and  the  sliding  boards, 

The  races  down  the  yard ; 
And  the  war  of  snow-ball  armies, 

The  victors  and  the  scarred. 
And  the  advent  of  the  spring-time, 

Which  stirs  the  sap  and  blood ; 
And  the  climbing  after  birds'  nests, 

The  wrestling  in  the  mud. 

Hop  Scotch,  in  geometric  lines, 

Mark'd  quaintly  on  the  bricks  ; 
The  driving  of  the  shapeless  blocks 

With  crooked  shinney  sticks. 
And  the  hand  sling,  and  the  sucker, 

Carved  out  of  some  old  boot ; 
The  three-cornered  paper  squib, 

The  trunk-key  made  to  shoot. 

So  about  the  school-house  linger 
All  the  early  ties  of  men, 

And  inspire  a  tender  sadness 
That  they  are  not  boys  again. 


THE   OLD   SCHOOL-HOUSE.  105 

For  each  youthful  pain  and  sorrow 

Was  banished  with  the  light ; 
And  each  morning  brought  new  beauties, 

Sweet  slumbers  came  with  night. 

The  earth  was  like  a  garden  then, 

And  life  seemed  like  a  show, 
And  the  air  was  rife  with  fragrance. 

The  sky  was  all  rainbow. 
And  the  heart  was  warm  and  joyous, 

Each  lad  had  native  grace  ; 
Sly  cupid  painted  blushes  then 

On  every  virgin  face. 

Those  pleasant  hours  can  ne'er  return 

Except  by  fitful  gleams, 
As  when  some  ancient  haunt  like  this 

Recalls  them  in  our  dreams. 
Oh  !  then  let  the  building  flourish, 

And  long  adorn  the  town  ; 
On  its  steps,  let  generations 

Meet,  passing  up  and  down. 
Let  it  still  the  past  and  present 

With  a  common  love  entwine  ; 
Let  its  pilgrim  sons,  returning, 

Revere  it  as  a  shrine. 


106  THE   FALL    OF  RICHMOND. 


THE  FALL  OF  KICHMOND. 

Hang  out  the  triple  colors  from  window  and  wall, 
Let  them  stream  from  the  vessel  and  flash  from  the 

hall; 
Let  batteries  of  cannon  shake  mountain  and  strand, 
Let  the  bells  and  the  bugles  peal  over  the  land ; 
With  bonfires  and  torches  illumine  the  night, 
With  odes  and  orations  express  the  delight ; 
Leave  the  toils  of  the  market,  the  plow  in  the  sod, 
With  sackbut  and  psaltery  sing  praises  to  God — 
The  chief  armies  have  battled,  the  struggle  is  done, 
And  the  foemen  are  vanquished,  their  citadel's  won ; 
The  Babylon  that  gloried  in  rebels  and  slaves 
Is  repenting  her  folly,  midst  ashes  and  graves. 
The  great  Victor,  regarding  his  Master  above, 
Is  proffering  the  humbled  the  right  hand  of  love : 
"  Return  to  allegiance  who've  wandered  so  long, 
"We  insist  not  on  vengeance,  there's  pardon  for  wrong, 
"Be  in  spirit  fraternal,  revive  the  old  spell 
"  Which  our  fathers  united,  and  all  will  be  well." 
And  while  peace,  like  an  angel,  is  nigh  at  the  door, 
And  the  arms  of  rebellion  seem  sheathed  evermore — 
Lo  !  hark  !  a  tragical  shriek  conies  piercing  the  ear ! 
And  the  merciful  Ruler  lies  cold  on  his  bier ! 
With  the  craft  of  a  coward,  the  hate  of  a  fiend, 
These  modern  Iscariots  have  murdered  their  friend  ! 


THE  FALL   OF  RICHMOND.  10? 

Oh  !  accurs'd  be  their  system,  accursed  its  hand  ! 
Let  the  law's  retribution  and  Cain's  hissing  brand 
Drive  the  wretches,  in  torture,  far  down  to  their  place, 
Let  the  scorn  of  the  ages  descend  on  their  race, 
Let  their  fate,  in  its  rigor,  teach  monsters  in  crime, 
That  the  pains  of  hereafter  are  symbol'd  in  time. 

Though  the  blow  of  bereavement  falls  fierce  as  a 

scourge, 
And  our  song  of  triumphing  subdues  to  a  dirge ; 
Though  our  pride  it's  prostrated,  and  palsied  our  mirth, 
And  with  emblems  of  sorrow  has  darkened  the  earth, 
Yet  the  Lord  will  o'errule  it,  and  temper  the  loss, 
And  show,  in  His  wisdom,  the  crown  next  the  cross. 
That  life  may  be  forfeit  for  the  errors  of  all, 
And  the  foremost  in  merit,  the  last  one  to  fall 
To  ennoble  the  freeman,  and  ransom  the  thrall. 
Thus  the  blood  of  the  martyr  shall  hallow  his  cause, 
And  the  truth,  that  was  stifled,  rise  up  with  applause ; 
So  shall  wrong  of  its  mischief  and  terror  be  shorn — 
In  this  travail  of  horrors,  the  nation's  reborn. 


108  VESPER. 


VESPER. 


Hark  !  to  the  running  water 
As  it  murmurs  o'er  the  stones — 

The  sad,  unchanging  sweetness 
Of  wild  nature's  music  tones. 

But  soon,  the  spell  is  broken 
By  the  noise  of  laughing  girls, 

Who  are  plashing  in  the  stream, 
And  a  washing  of  their  curls. 

So,  in  the  days  of  fable, 

When  the  gods  espous'd  the  fair, 
Bards  tell  us  of  the  wood  nymphs, 

Who  thus  bathed  their  virgin  hair. 

The  shadows  now  are  spreading, 
And  they  weave  the  day  a  shroud- 

The  sinking  sun  is  painting 
Gorgeous  colors  on  the  cloud. 

Dewy  odors  of  the  harvest 

Breathe  softly  through  the  grove ; 
And  all  the  senses  tell  us 

Of  the  twilight  hour  of  love. 


VESPER.  109 

Now,  to  their  leafy  lodges 

Swiftly  fly  the  feathered  throng; 

While  countless  woodland  singers 
Begin  their  amorous  song. 

And  yet  these  small  musicians, 

Whose  life  seems  but  a  tune, 
Soon  feed  the  jaws  of  reptiles, 

Who  then  fall  themselves  as  soon. 

And  thus,  the  simple  annals 

Of  so  brief  a  vital  span, 
Are  like  a  sorry  satire 

On  the  character  of  man. 

The  bat  sails  on  a  foray, 

With  his  mouth  extended  wide, 
Remorseless  as  a  pirate, 

On  the  briny,  orient  tide. 

The  owl  flits  to  his  station, 

Where  his  big  eyes  threaten  death  ; 

The  toad  hops  from  his  shelter, 
With  a  poison  on  his  breath. 

And  loudly  booms  the  night  hawk, 

As  he  swoops  upon  his  prey; 
The  fox  peers  from  his  burrow 

At  the  lingering  glance  of  day. 
10 


110  ABE   SMITH. 

The  rattling  of  the  reaper 

Sounds  no  more  upon  the  plain, 

No  more  the  shouting  yeomen 
Bind  the  golden  sheaves  of  grain. 

The  cowherd,  with  the  mastiff, 
Now  homeward  sauntering  goes, 

The  lowing  kine  before  him — 
And  the  toils  with  evening  close. 


ABE  SMITH. 

They  lifted  him  up  with  Samaritan  care, 

And  bore  him  benumbed  from  the  night's  icy  air, 

The  shelter  and  couch  of  a  cottage  to  share. 

But  naught  could  avail  'gainst  the  pitiless  foe — 
The  wild  winter  winds  now  over  him  blow, 
As  coldly  and  stark  he  sleeps  under  the  snow. 

Though  swarthy  his  hue,  he  was  stately  in  form ; 
Uncultured  in  mind,  he'd  a  heart  that  was  warm, 
And  manners  uncouth,  yet  imbued  with  a  charm. 

His  hands,  like  the  smith's  that  we  read  of  in  song, 
With  arduous  toil,  had  grown  callous  and  strong, 
Yet  clean  as  a  child's  of  dishonor  or  wrong. 


ABE   SMITH.  Ill 

He  loved  the  broad  lands  to  upturn  and  to  sow, 
The  harvest  to  glean  in  the  midsummer's  glow, 
The  forest  to  fell,  when  the  sap  ceased  to  flow. 

He  loved  the  brave  team,  on  the  highway  to  guide ; 
The  pomp  of  their  march  filled  his  bosom  with  pride, 
As  swaying  he  rode,  or  kept  step  by  their  side. 

He  loved  the  green  sward  on  the  hill  and  the  mead, 
Where  the  wond'ring  steers  started  up  from  their  feed, 
And  came  to  his  hand,  with  a  frolicsome  speed. 

The  brutes  knew  him  well,  and  seemed  to  rejoice 
On  seeing  his  face,  or  on  hearing  his  voice, 
And  heeded  his  will  from  attachment  and  choice. 

Such  tasks  as  he  did  now  need  him  in  vain ; 
The  creatures  he  fed  may  in  silence  complain ; 
His  love  and  his  care  will  ne'er  bless  them  again. 

And  we  shall  revere  what  the  grave  cannot  hold, 
Those  virtues  of  his,  as  they  gleam  through  the  mould 
Of  time  and  decay,  with  the  luster  of  gold. 


112  THE    UNKNOWN  LADY. 


THE  UNKNOWN  LADY. 

Ah  !  comrade !  I  have  seen,  in  far  distant  land  and 

city, 
The  beauties  that  you  read   of  in   story  book   and 

ditty— 
The  lasses  of  the  Scottish  realm,  who  crown  the  mead 

and  brae 
With  charms,  like  those,  which  erst  inspired  the  harp- 
er's roundelay: 
The  haughty  maids  of  England,  with  foreheads  broad 

and  blond, 
The  coral  lips  of  Flemish  belles,  so  tempting  and  so 

fond: 
The  gay  and  artful  demoiselles  that  bloom  upon  the 

Seine, 
And  the  lovely  Senoritas  of  the  olive  clime  of  Spain  : 

The  dark  eyed  girls  of  Yenice,  with  their  pensive  look 

and  smile, 
As  if  they  mourned  the  glory  fled  that  once  illumed 

their  Isle : 
The  Grecians  with   those   chiseled  forms,  adored  in 

classic  art, 
Who  prattle  with  the  sweetest  tongue  that  ever  sought 

the  heart: 


THE    UNKNOWN  LADY.  [13 

The  slaves  from  rude  Circassia,  who  in  Stamboul  laugh 

and  dance, 
And  flash  beneath  their  jealous  vails  the  furtive,  fiery 

glance: 
The  daughters  of  the  prophecy,  who  still  round  Salem 

cling, 
Recalling  that  voluptuous  fair  who  lured  the  wisest 

king: 
All  such,  and  many  more  I've  seen,  in  garden  and  in 

hall, 
Clad  in  the  careless  rustic  garb,  or  graced  with  coronal, 
Gilding  the   peasant's   humble   sphere,  or  Fashion's 

carnival — 
But  none  of  these  e'er  warmed  me,  with  such  an  ardent 

flame, 
As  she  who  passed  me  in  the  street,  and  whom  I  can- 
not name. 
She  wore  a  hat  of  velvet  cloth,  tipp'd  with  a  wild 

bird's  plume, 
And  a  robe  of  glossy  silk,  from  the  cunning  Tuscan 

loom: 
Her  train  fell  on  the  pavement,  in  many  a  winding 

fold, 
And  her  stately  step  recalled  the  Epic  Queen  of  old. 

She  turned  her  head  a  moment,  and  revealed  a  blessed 

face, 
Radiant  with  youthfulness,  and  as  eloquent  with  grace : 
All  the  elements  of  beauty  beamed  in  that  vision  bright, 
Every  symmetry  of  outline,  and  every  tint  of  light. 
10* 


114  THE    UNKNOWN  LADY. 

A  virgin,  so  attractive,  once,  some  gifted  artisan 
May  have  copied  on  his  easel  for  church  or  Vatican. 
Her  cheeks  possessed  the  changing  hue,  the  rare  and 

blended  glow- 
That  mantles  o'er  the  mellow  wine,  when  it  is  iced 

with  snow. 
Her  eyes  were  mild  and  lucid,  like  the  innocent  ga- 
zelle's, 
And  shed  a  magic  sweetness  that  bound  one  in  their 

spells : 
And  musical  her  voice  was,  as  the  tone  of  silver  bells, 
When  she  bade  a  friend  good  morning,  in   such  a 

winning  way, 
I  felt  its  echoes  whisper  through  my  bosom,  all  the 
day. 


FAREWELL    TO    WINTER.  115 


FAREWELL  TO  WINTER. 

Good-by  !  old  blustering  Winter ! 

Pack  up  your  ice  and  snow — 
You  need  not  stand  to  shake  one's  hand, 

Nor  friendly  sorrow  show — 
Your  parting  grace  is  out  of  place — 

We're  glad  to  see  you  go. 

You  did  a  deal  of  cruel  work : 

Many  a  plague  you  bore : 
While  on  your  breath  was  cruel  death 

Which  wasted  sea  and  shore ; 
And  far  and  wide,  you  laid  the  pride 

Of  sunny  sixty-four. 

The  ling'ring  bloom  of  autumn  flowers, 

So  innocent  and  fair, 
The  leafy  grove,  the  haunts  of  love, 

The  song  birds  in  the  air, 
With  ruthless  spite,  you  banish 'd  quite, 

And  made  earth  mute  and  bare. 

You  cast  a  spell  upon  the  sight, 
A  spell  upon  the  ear, 


116  FAREWELL    TO    WINTER. 

A  doleful  shade  the  heart  o'erlaid, 
And  turned  its  hope  to  fear : 

And  spread  around  a  gloom  profound, 
A  prospect  sad  and  drear. 

Oh  !  tarry  here  no  longer  then ; 

Haste  with  your  hideous  train : 
Let  gentle  Spring  her  glories  bring, 

And  sway  the  land  and  main, 
Till  overhead,  and  'neath  our  tread, 

All  things  rejoice  again. 

Behold  !  she's  in  the  distance  now, 
Just  bursting  on  the  view  ! 

With  modest  gait,  she  needs  must  wait 
To  find  her  welcome  true : 

And  like  a  maid,  by  passion  stayed, 
She  loves  but  cannot  woo. 

How  gorgeous  her  epiphany ! 

Like  some  celestial  Sight 
With  every  trait  of  royal  state 

Her  presence  is  bedight, 
And  by  her  side,  in  all  their  pride, 

Attendants  beam  with  light. 

Sylvan  powers  sport  in  her  smiles — 
The  Satyr  and  the  Faun 


FAREWELL    TO    WINTER.  11? 

Come  with  Dryads  and  with  Naiads, 
From  streamlet,  wood,  and  lawn : 

And  the  Horae,  like  Aurora, 
Lead  forth  the  Summer's  dawn. 

Her  balmy  breath  the  gales  perfume, 

The  gales  with  joy  prolong 
The  native  notes  of  feathered  throats, 

In  loud  and  thrilling  song: 
While  on  her  way,  in  colors  gay, 

The  Floral  beauties  throng. 

All  hail !  then  Spring's  advancing  steps 

On  Winter's  flying  rear  ! 
Each  sense  to  charm,  each  heart  to  warm 

And  renovate  the  year — 
So  Peace  shall  chase  War's  rugged  face, 

And  fill  the  land  with  cheer. 


118        THE    WRECK   OF   THE  ALBION. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  ALBION.P) 

Years  ago,  the  Albion  ship 

Swung  from  her  moorings  free, 
And  proudly  down  the  Narrows  sailed, 

And  stood  away  to  sea. 
Right  for  the  English  channel  bound, 

Mann'd  by  a  chosen  crew, 
A  score  of  days  she  onward  sped, 

And  kept  her  bearings  true. 

The  wind  upon  her  quarter  lay, 

The  voyage  promised  well, 
Until  a  sudden  blast  arose, 

And  tossed  her  like  a  shell. 
Yet  soon  again  it  seemed  to  lull, 

As  land  was  seen  ahead, 
And  all,  with  cheer,  beheld  the  Isle 

Which  few  would  ever  tread. 

For  the  sky,  at  dusk,  grew  cloudy, 

The  deep  with  white  caps  hoar ; 
We  held  a  press  of  canvas  on, 

To  crowd  the  ship  off  shore. 
But  the  southward  squalls  blew  harder, 

And  sail  was  shortened  fast, 
And  a  heavy  sea,  that  struck  her, 

Disabled  every  mast. 


THE    WRECK  OF  THE  ALBION.        119 

It  stove  the  doors  and  hatches  in, 

And  breaching  o'er  the  deck, 
It  left  the  gallant  Albion 

A  sad  and  shattered  wreck. 
In  vain  they  sought  the  leaky  pumps, 

In  vain  the  helm  assayed ; 
The  tall  headlands,  closing  round  her, 

The  fated  bark  embayed. 

The  Captain,  in  despair,  beheld 

The  fearful  fate  in  store, 
And  told  all  hands  assembled, 

The  ship  would  drive  ashore ! 
Frail  women,  from  their  slumbers  roused, 

Aghast,  the  warning  heard : 
And  oldest  tars  and  boldest  men 

Quailed  at  the  startling  word. 

The  iron  coast  of  Kinsale  Head 

Lay  just  upon  our  lee — 
Destruction  waited  on  the  rocks, 

And  in  the  surging  sea. 
No  skillfulness  of  mariners 

The  peril  could  eschew — 
The  stoutest  as  the  weakest  were, 

The  many,  as  the  few. 

With  aid,  I  crawled  toward  the  bows, 
Sick  from  my  berth  below, 


120         THE    WRECK  OF   THE  ALBION. 

And  seemed,  again,  to  grow  in  strength 
To  face  this  scene  of  woe ; 

For  some  were  there,  already  dead, 
Drowned  by  the  whelming  tide, 

And  one  I  helped  to  reach  the  rails, 
And  there  she  clung  and  died. 

Fast,  toward  the  raging  whirlpools, 

Formed  by  the  surfworn  caves, 
Fast  through  appalling  darkness, 

And  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 
The  helpless  hulk  was  driving  on 

Before  the  dreadful  gale, 
Without  an  axe  to  clear  the  wreck, 

Without  a  shred  of  sail. 

And  strained  through  all  her  timbers, 

She  yawned  at  every  seam, 
And  like  a  coffin  huge  appeared 

On  death's  terrific  stream. 
The  foaming  of  the  breakers  soon 

Gave  forth  their  dismal  boom, 
Announcing,  like  a  signal  gun, 

The  instant  hour  of  doom. 

At  dawn  of  day,  a  mighty  jar, 
Then  gave  a  grating  sound, 

And  crushed  her  keel  and  rudder  off, 
And  swung  her  stern  around. 


THE    WRECK  OF  THE  ALBION.        121 

With  toiling  steps  I  waded  aft, 

A  cable  for  my  guide, 
Half  clad,  amidst  the  fragments  dashed, 

I  gained  the  leeward  side. 

Another  lurch  her  bottom  stove, 

And  crashing  was  the  shock, 
As  through  the  parted  vessel  rose 

A  rugged  reef  of  rock. 
And  those  who'd  crowded  at  the  prow 

Were  swept  at  once  away, 
And  some,  lashed  to  the  windlass  post, 

Were  smothered  by  the  spray. 

The  quarter  deck  beat  o'er  the  ledge, 

Beneath  the  craggy  wall, 
Whose  top  loomed  up  beyond  the  sight, 

Sheer  as  a  plumb  could  fall. 
I  mustered  all  my  failing  powers — 

I  made  a  desp'rate  bound — 
And  clutching  on  a  narrow  cliff, 

A  single  foothold  found. 

There,  drenched  and  bruised,  and  numb  with  cold, 

And  trembling  as  I  stood, 
The  steward  seized  me,  as  he  drowned, 

Then  drifted  down  the  flood. 
Eight  sailors,  only,  from  the  yards 

Were  picked  up,  one  by  one ; 
11 


122         THE   WRECK  OF  THE  ALBION. 

My  cabin  mates  had  perished  all — 
And  I  was  left  alone. 

Alone,  upon  that  little  peak, 

With  scarce  a  space  to  stand — 
A  wilderness  of  water  round, 

A  precipice,  the  land. 
The  billows,  far,  like  ordered  hosts, 

Came  on  with  roaring  tread, 
And  lifting  up  their  frowning  crests, 

Burst  o'er  my  naked  head. 

Five  hours  upon  that  single  foot, 

Each  hour  seemed  like  a  year, 
I  waited  for  His  saving  aid 

Without  a  throb  of  fear ; 
For  well  I  knew  His  promise  sure, 

Who  rules  the  sky  and  land, 
Who  holds  the  tempest  in  its  path, 

The  ocean  in  His  hand. 

At  length,  a  rope,  thrown  from  above, 

I  seized  and  girt  me  round — 
I  saw  the  dizzy  depths  below — 

All  darkness  seemed  the  ground. 
Unconscious,  in  a  stupor  blind, 

I  lay  like  one  that  dies, 
Until  a  gracious,  healing  care 

Made  life  seem  like  surprise. 


THE    WAR.  123 

Bereft  of  raiment  and  of  means, 

Enfeebled  and  unknown, 
I  scarcely  «felt  a  sense  of  want, 

Such  charity  was  shown. 
And  blessings  on  those  Irish  hearts, 

And  Heaven  them  repay, 
Who  treated  with  a  brother's  love 

The  stranger  castaway. 


THE  WAR. 

The  wrath  of  nations  vents  itself  in  blood, 
And  Death  himself  withholds  or  yields  renown; 
For  whom  he  toils  in  most  destructive  mood, 
That  side  will  prosper,  and  its  foe  go  down — 
Defeat,  triumph  dwell  in  his  smile  or  frown ; 
And  in  his  reeking  wake  at  last  appears 
The  Cap  of  Freedom,  or  the  Despot's  Crown, 
When,  o'er  the  ghastly  sea  of  gore  and  tears, 
Mild  Peace,  in  dazzling  hues,  her  halcyon  rainbow- 
rears.  _- 

And  thus  with  peoples,  as  with  single  souls, 
Salvation  has  in  sacrifice  its  source  : 
And  martyrs'  names  are  therefore  writ  on  scrolls 
Eternal;  and  their  illustrious  course 


124  THE    WAR. 

Inspires  the  living  with  unwonted  force, 
And  swells  the  num'rous  host ;  and  thus  subdues 
The  stubborn  foe,  or  fills  him  with  remorse, 
That  he  in  penitence  for  pardon  sues, 
And  his  allegiance  pays,  and  friendship,  faith  renews. 

I  say  the  dead  do  conquer!  from  their  graves 
The  prestige  issues  which  achieves  the  fight ! 
Example  is  their  testament,  which  saves 
The  cause  they  fell  for,  when  that  cause  is  right. 
And  so  the  men,  who,  in  that  dawn's  gray  light, 
Upon  the  city  streets,  their  lives  outpoured, 
Marching  on  duty,  'neath  their  standard  bright, 
Aroused  the  masses  'gainst  the  rebel  horde, 
And  made  the  North  proclaim  th'  evangel  of  the  sword. 

Not  greater  columns  followed  the  Crusade, 
To  win  the  holy  places  for  the  Giaour, 
When  it  was  urged  the  scheme  had  Heaven's  aid, 
And  that  was  promised  as  the  soldier's  dower; 
Nor  saw  the  Persian,  from  his  gorgeous  tower, 
More  numbers,  when  he  dared  the  Grecian  wars ; 
Nor  did  Napoleon,  in  his  palmy  power, 
Lead  stronger  legions ;  nor  did  ever  Mars 
Call  forth  such  hosts  as  bore  the  banner  of  the  stars. 

From  all  callings  and  localities  they  came, 
All  creeds  and  colors,  and  from  youth  to  age; 
And  sought  War's  perils,  and  perhaps  its  fame ; 
And  Wealth  gave  freely  of  its  heritage — 


THE    WAR.  125 

Wit  and  Song  cheered  from  the  press  and  stage — 
And  Beauty  aided  with  propitious  smiles — 
And  hopes  were  cited  from  the  Hallowed  Page — 
finance  greetings  echoed  from  the  distant  Isles — 
And  zeal  responsive  flashed  through  all  the  mustering 
files. 

The  cause  was  worthy  of  this  grand  array — 
It  had  the  sanction  of  prescriptive  time, 
Of  famous  Cycles  that  have  passed  away, 
Of  Nations  and  of  Heroes,  whose  great  prime 
Bards  have  chanted  in  the  loftiest  chime ; 
The  cause,  which  Seers,  in  their  unclouded  view, 
Foresaw  prevailing  in  each  happy  clime : 
It  was  the  cause  of  Israel's  God,  Who  knew 
The  wrongs  His  people  bore  from  lords  His  wrath 
o'erthrew. 

The  Foe  was  bold,  well  furnished,  and  in  force, 
Greedy  of  sway ;  intolerant  with  pride ; 
While  all  his  nurture  and  resource 
He  owed  to  slaves,  and  Her  he  now  denied — 
'Gainst  whom  he  raised  the  hand  of  parricide  ! 
A  crime,  that  traces  back  to  Fiends  its  birth, 
And  which,  above,  had  willfully  defied 
The  Divine  autocracy ;  and,  on  Earth, 
Would  blast  the  public  weal,  uproot  the  family  hearth. 

And  such  a  crime  the  Rebel  chieftains  dared; 
And  led  the  people  from  their  honored  ways — 
11* 


126  THE    WAR. 

And  all  their  patriotic  ties  impaired — 

And  made  new  idols  to  engross  their  praise — 

Made  them  their  noblest  history  erase — 

Call  bondage  holy,  curse  the  charms  that  bore 

Their  souls  to  triumph,  in  the  early  days, 

When,  North  and  South  shed,  in  one  cause  their 

gore, 
When,  not  as  since,  was  heard  Fort  Moultrie's  cannon 

roar. 

The  Long  Roll  peals  across  the  continent, 
And  where  the  monster  castles  swim  the  brine — 
Calling  to  field,  to  trench,  and  battlement — 
The  mass  unfolds  in  stern,  prodigious  line, 
With  wings,  extending  to  each  far  confine, 
Till  the  vast  Frontier's  girt  on  every  hand, 
As  with  a  living  wall,  and  teeming  mine, 
But  waiting  for  the  signal,  fell  command, 
Their  terrors  to  discharge,  and  scourge  the  Rebel  land. 

And  yet,  they  pause ;  the  world's  great  heart  beats 

fast, 
Will  prudence  now,  or  patience  yet  avail  ? 
The  North,  colossal,  hesitates  at  last 
To  strike  the  blow,  reluctant  to  assail, 
And  countless  horrors  on  its  kin  entail; 
And  strives  with  zeal  to  turn  the  pending  storm — 
Deems  reason,  sobered,  may  perhaps  prevail, 
Or  time,  or  chance  work  out  some  peaceful  charm, 
Or  Heaven  withhold  the  destroying  angel's  arm — 


THE    WAR.  121 

Fire !  the  fatal  word  is  spoken  ! 
Fire  !  the  breathless  pause  is  broken  ! 
Now,  badgered  I^orth  and  vaunting  South, 

The  risen  Bond,  the  fearless  Free 
Discuss  their  wrath  with  cannon's  mouth, 

And  greet  its  awful  Jubilee  ! 
Hail !  harbingers  of  grief  and  woe  ! 
Hail !  fiendish  Furies  from  below  ! 

Your  fiery  mission  speed — 
Upheave  the  sea,  unseat  the  ground — 
The  ages,  in  their  far  profound, 
The  world  will,  to  its  utmost  bound, 

Your  dismal  logic  heed  ! 

For  never  yet  has  golden  Phrah 
Shone  o'er  such  vast  Aceldama; 
And  never  yet  have  armies  wheeled 
Upon  a  wider  battle-field. 
By  gentle  stream,  and  deep  morass, 
In  wilderness,  and  mountain  pass, 
Above  the  clouds,  and  on  the  main, 
In  everglade,  and  open  plain, 
Amidst  the  winter's  snowy  sheen, 
Amidst  the  groves  of  Tropic  green, 
By  rural  towns,  on  prairies  wide, 
Upon  the  river's  rushing  tide, 
By  cities,  proud  of  caste  or  gold, 
With  scarlet  sins,  like  her  of  old, 
O'er  greater  bounds  than  Kaiser's,  sways 
This  battle  of  a  thousand  days  ! 


128  THE    WAR. 

And  many  a  gallant  feat  is  played, 

By  cautious  scout,  and  dashing  raid, 

By  skirmisher  and  sentinel, 

By  sailor  in  hia  floating  shell. 

All  through  the  long  advance  there  runs 

The  rattle  of  the  lesser  guns ; 

The  sharp  and  searching  fusilade, 

To  swift  unmask  the  ambuscade ; 

To  feel  the  measure  of  the  foe, 

His  strong  defense  or  weakness  show, 

Until  positions  lost  or  ta'en 

Involve  the  hostile  sides  amain, 

And  breaking  forth,  on  land  and  flood, 

There  sounds  the  battery's  heavy  thud. 

Now,  from  the  front,  and  curving  flanks, 
From  deck,  and  wall,  and  serried  ranks, 
From  sunken  mine,  and  lofty  crest, 
From  North  and  South,  and  East  and  West 

The  loud  explosions  roar! 
And  Parrot  steel  and  Minnie  lead, 
And  iron  bomb  like  meteor  red, 

Their  pond'rous  volleys  pour — 
Till  all  around  the  horizon  far, 
The  earth  is  trembling  with  the  jar, 
And  heaven's  lurid  with  the  glare 
Of  engines,  that  her  thunders  share  ; 
Till  it  recalls  when  Titans  strove, 
Or  Giants  coped  with  mighty  Jove, 


THE    WAR.  129 

And  would  his  stable  throne  reverse 
And  battle  for  the  Universe : 
Such  havoc  huge  is  spread  around, 
Such  tumult  and  such  noise  resound. 

But  lo !  a  lull  is  in  the  storm? 
And  in  close  order,  swift  they  form — 
With  fixed  blade,  and  cutlass  keen, 
With  standards  flashing  o'er  the  scene, 
With  rolling  drum,  and  trumpets  blown, 
With  shouting  in  demoniac  tone, 
The  foot,  the  horse,  the  teeming  barge 
Move  fiercely  to  the  final  charge ! 
The  peril  of  the  hour  is  rife 
With  all  the  issues  of  the  strife ; 
Both  Foemen,  in  their  bosoms,  feel 
This  is  the  struggle's  last  appeal — 
Who  conquers  in  this  fearful  cast 
The  future  holds,  and  seals  the  past. 
Imbued,  alike,  with  zeal  and  skill, 
With  bitter  hate,  or  stubborn  will ; 
As  those,  who  know  their  art  to  wield, 
As  those,  who  rather  die  than  yield: 
No  better  soldiers  ever  met 
With  javelin  or  bayonet. 

In  phrenzied  rage,  or  blind  despair, 
That  naught  will  give,  and  all  will  dare, 
That  neither  aims  to  live,  or  spare, 
With  frightful  din  they  close — 


130  THE    WAR. 

Like  oceans  by  the  tempest  blown — 
Like  avalanche  from  mountain  thrown — 
The  myriads  of  weapons  crash, 
And  legions  against  legions  dash, 
And  sway,  and  heave,  recoil  and  blend, 
In  ridges  rise,  in  vales  descend, 

As  fury  wilder  grows — 
And  Slaughter  stalks  with  dripping  garb — 
And  Death  upon  his  ghostly  barb 

His  crest  of  horror  shows  ! 
'Neath  trampling  hoof  and  crunched  bone, 
From  limb  and  carcass  widely  strown, 
From  hurt  and  killed,  in  mangled  mass, 
From  thousands,  falling  like  the  grass, 

Beneath  the  mailed  blows  : 
From  morning  till  the  sable  night, 
Down  gentle  mound,  and  rocky  height, 
Through  culvert  drains,  and  scuppered  beams, 
Profusely  as  the  wine  press  streams, 

The  purle  torrent  flows ! 

And,  oh !  the  aggregated  cries 
Of  triumph,  and  of  agonies 

That  freight  the  fretted  air ! 
While  dark'ning  clouds  of  dust  and  fume 
O'ershadow  with  funereal  gloom 

Sad  victims  everywhere ! 
Such  multitudes  down  in  the  deep, 
Or  on  the  sod,  in  frequent  heap, 
Are  lying  in  that  silent  sleep 

No  dreams  will  e'er  beguile — 


THE    WAR.  131 

And  more  will  fall,  and  not  be  slain, 
And  more  will  shrink,  but  not  with  pain, 
Who  have  been  waiting  these  in  vain 
With  love's  familiar  smile. 

Now,  fortune  o'er  this  red  expanse, 
Amidst  hell's  saturnalian  dance, 
Oft  dealt  the  foes  alternate  chance 

To  win  the  harried  field — 
And  there  were  points  of  time  and  place, 
Our  cause  were  lost,  had  Heaven's  grace 

Not  interposed  a  shield. 
New  vigor  from  the  gloom  burst  forth ; 
Disasters  but  refreshed  the  North — 

Beneath  them  rebels  reeled. 

And  thus  the  fight  they  madly  waged, 
The  treasures  that  they  boldly  gaged 

Have  failed  the  stake  to  gain. 
And  all  their  lines,  in  front  and  rear, 
Are  breaking  way  'fore  gun  and  spear, 

On  cliff,  and  sea,  and  plain. 
Whole  regions,  in  their  flying  path, 
Are  wasted  with  consuming  wrath. 

The  pleasant  Grange  is  spoiled  and  peeled 
Of  orange  grove  and  cotton  field ! 
The  garner's  void,  the  fertile  mead 
Is  plowed,  but  not  with  ox  or  steed. 


132  THE    WAR. 

The  cities,  whose  delicious  cares 
Were  tasteful  toils  and  am'rous  airs ; 
Where  gentle  passions  toyed  and  smiled, 
Or  boisterous  sports  the  youth  beguiled, 
Or  trade  exchanged  with  foreign  shores 
The  summer  fruits  for  precious  ores — 
These  too  have  failed  and  fallen  low ; 
These  too  are  humbled  by  the  blow ! 
There's  bursted  gate  and  crumbling  pile — 
There's  grass  beneath  the  arching  aisle — 
There's  mourning  in  the  smitten  street — 
There's  footfall  sad  of  muffled  feet — 
There's  darkness  on  the  dusty  stair — 
There's  silence  in  the  stall  and  fair — 
No  music  swells  along  the  hall — 
No  dance  leads  forth  the  festival — 
The  Courts  are  dumb,  the  Altars  quenched- 
And  Famine's  hollow  eye  has  blenched, 
On  Beauty's  cheek,  the  beaming  rose, 
And  filled  the  roof  and  garden  close 
With  Rachael's  wail  and  Ramah's  woes ! 

The  Fort,  defiant  in  its  pride, 
Has  yielded  to  the  iron  tide  : 
The  Fleets,  that  prowled  upon  the  waves, 
Have  found  within  them  sudden  graves : 
The  Armies,  that  so  firmly  stood, 
Have  melted  in  their  tracks  of  blood : 
The  Emblem  of  the  Rebels'  trust 
Is  torn  and  trailing  in  the  dust : 


THE    WAR.  133 

The  Power  that  flung  those  colors  high, 
O'er  cavalier  and  chivalry, 
That  sought  perhaps  to  rear  a  throne, 
With  crime  for  its  foundation  stone, — 
Is  riven,  shivered — vanished  last — 
Before  the  mighty,  Northern  blast! 

The  fight  is  concluded,  the  victory  is  won, 
The  sword's  in  the  scabbard,  uplimbered  the  gun; 
The  last  charge  is  sounded,  the  last  bullet  sped, 
The  wounded  are  cared  for,  and  buried  the  dead. 
No  more  of  the  camp,  or  the  horrors  of  strife, 
Of  the  roll  of  the  drum,  or  the  scream  of  the  fife. 
The  alarums  are  ceased,  and  the  pickets  withdrawn, 
The  forays  are  ended,  and  the  cohorts  are  gone. 

**, 
As  we  muse  on  the  facts,  we  are  stricken  aghast 

At  their  towering  proportions,  o'ershading  the  past. 

No  classical  annals,  nor  barbarous  chaunt, 

Nor  the  Sagas  of  Scald,  nor  the  Minstrel's  romaunt 

Of  such  loss  and  devotion,  and  science  e'er  told, 

Of  issue  more  brilliant,  or  valor  more  bold. 

Not  Yikings  of  Norseland,  with  their  ice-covered  sail, 
Not  Paynim  nor  Paladin,  harnessed  in  mail ; 
Not  stalwart  Achaians,  whose  prowess  has  thrown 
O'er  their  country  a  luster,  that  illumines  our  own; 
Not  those  who,  in  triumph,  with  gorgeous  display, 
Midst  paeans  of  Romans,  climbed  the  Capitol  way; 
12 


134  THE    WAR. 

Not  those  of  the  Doges,  whose  Gonfalon  bore 
The  thunders  of  Venice  'gainst  the  Saracen  shore ; 
Not  the  cross  of  Saint  George,  nor  the  colors  of  Gaul 
E'er  a  victory  won,  so  glorious  for  all ! 

In  the  glow  of  success,  ere  the  passions  subside, 

Let  wisdom  restrain  the  excesses  of  pride. 

The  rigors  of  Justice  let  the  charities  mould : 

Let  the  erring  repentant  re-enter  the  fold. 

Let  the  cause  be  secured  for  which  struggled  the 

braves, 
Let  their  freedom  be  sealed,  who  were  holden  as 

slaves. 

And  let  there  be  granted  for  the  Lost  and  the  Saved, 
Who  followed  your  Ensign  wherever  it  waved, 
Testimonials,  such  as  they'd  never  have  craved. 
Let  structures,  becoming,  of  shaft  and  of  tower, 
Let  positions  of  profit,  of  honor,  of  power, 
Let  song  and  oration,  and  the  evergreen  crown 
Your  gratitude  witness,  and  their  lasting  renown. 
But  let  this  Republic  give  praises  to  God ! 
Who   has   led   her,  with   honor,   through  rivers  of 

blood : 
Has  blessed  her  with  plenty,  and  made  her  a  name : 
Has  broken  the  sorceries  that  bound  her  in  shame : 
Has  solaced  her  sorrows,  when  her  spirit  has  waned, 
And  cleansed  her  of  dross,  and  her  jewels  retained. 
So  her  Horn  shall  be  lifted,  and  her  altars  shall  fume 
With  oifrings,  that  the  lightnings  of  God  shall  con- 
sume : 


THE    WAR.  135 

Her  faith  shall  be  greeted  with  care  from  above, 
With  bounties  of  nature,  with  tokens  of  love. 

Already,  as  the  smoke  is  raised  from  the  scene — 

Lo!  the  ashes  are  cold,  and  the  red  field  is  green! 

New  harvests  will  bloom  o'er  the  flesh  of  her  slain, 

And  her  Navies  of  Commerce  will  conquer  the  main. 

The  union  of  effort,  and  the  massing  of  thought 

Will  restore,  with  new  beauty  where  ruin  has 
wrought. 

The  zeal  of  true  labor,  and  the  genius  of  art 

Will  bring  grace  to  the  Hall,  and  wealth  to  the 
Mart: 

Cause  her  mines  to  produce  their  rare  treasures  of 
stone, 

Her  strands  to  be  builded,  and  her  wastes  to  be 
sown; 

Her  mountains  shall  sunder,  and  her  valleys  shall 
raise — 

And  the  nations  will  throng  in  the  steps  of  her  ways. 

Her  virtues  will  strengthen,  as  her  glories  increase, 

O'er  her  borders  will  smile  the  blest  Angel  of  Peace ; 

While  her  law  will  go  forth,  with  a  prestige  sub- 
lime, 

The  Future  will  hail  her  as  the  marvel  of  Time. 


136  THE  BRANDY  WINE. 


THE  BRANDYWINE.(8) 

How  beautifully  glides  the  Brandywine ! 
On  and  forever,  from  dawn  to  decline — 
Under  the  bridges  and  arches  of  trees, 
Gilding  the  landscape  and  cooling  the  breeze, 
Parting  the  pastures  and  swelling  their  stores, 
Flowering,  perfuming  the  sinuous  shores, 
Glassing  the  squirrel,  disporting  above, 
Sweetening  the  Tanager's  carol  of  love. 

How  beautifully  flows  the  Brandywine ! 
Laving  the  limbs  of  the  indolent  kine, 
Kissing  the  sedges  and  smoothing  the  stones, 
Charming  the  air  with  its  murmuring  tones, 
Bord'ring  the  cottage  ensconced  in  the  vale, 
Whitening  the  wheat  for  the  garner  and  flail, 
Shaking  the  mill  with  its  slumberous  sounds, 
And  feeding  the  forge  as  it  smokes  and  pounds. 

How  beautifully  streams  the  Brandywine ! 
Slowly  or  swift  with  its  silvery  shine, 
Under  the  cliffs, (9)  where  traditional  fame 
Pictures  the  plunge  of  the  desperate  dame, 
Rounding  the  hollow,(10)  where  sunbeams  illume 
With  changeable  gleams  arboreous  gloom, 


THE  BRAND  YW1NE.  131 

Nearing  the  lodge  of  the  Indian  Maid,(n) 
Lingering  alone,  where  her  fathers  strayed. 


How  solemnly  surges^the  Brandywine  ! 
Armies  of  nations  contesting  its  line, 
Foreigners  fording  its  turbulent  flood, 
Signal  guns  distantly  pealing  their  thud — 
Column  on  column,  heroic  with  zeal, 
Waving  their  pennants  and  flashing  their  steel, 
Trampling  the  rushes  and  climbing  the  bank, 
Startling  their  foemen,  assailing  their  flank. 

How  solemnly  surges  the  Brandywine  ! 
Marking  with  crimson  its  course  serpentine — 
Forces  reserved  closing  in  from  afar, 
Scaling  with  fury  the  ridges  of  war, 
Cannon  exploding  with  terrible  roar, 
Dark'ning  the  heavens  and  rocking  the  shore, 
Squadrons  of  troopers  o'ersweeping  the  plain, 
Regiments  recoiling,  retreating  or  slain. 

How  solemnly  surges  the  Brandywine  ! 
Teeming  with  many  a  sorrowful  sign — 
Heroes  and  horses,  distorted  and  torn, 
Bloated  and  dead,  on  its  surface  upborne, 
Wounded  ones  writhing  and  wailing  for  aid, 
Fragments  and  missiles  o'er  hillock  and  glade, 
Havoc  and  horror,  disaster  and  night 
Palling  the  scenery  and  quenching  the  fight. 
12* 


138  THE  BRAND YWINE. 

How  solemnly  surges  the  Brandywine  ! 
Mocking  the  moan  of  the  mountainous  pine- 
Misfortune  and  want  pervading  the  land, 
Toiling  in  vain,  scarce  her  people  withstand 
Spoilure  of  wealth  and  the  tything  of  life, 
Oppression  with  truce,  despair  in  the  strife, 
Doubt  and  confusion  portentous  of  doom — 
Virtues  transcendant  resisting  the  gloom. 
***** 

How  exultingly  leaps  the  Brandywine  ! 
Welcoming  Peace  with  her  features  divine, 
Bearing  the  olive,  and  pouring  her  horn 
Over  the  region  so  smitten  and  shorn, 
Causing  the  barrens  to  bloom  as  the  rose, 
Soothing  the  passions  of  rage  to  repose, 
Blessing  the  labors  of  genius  and  art, 
Rearing  the  altar  and  crowding  the  mart. 

How  complacently  pours  the  Brandywine ! 
Voicing  its  sounds  in  songs  crystalline — 
Orders  abolished  and  merit  secure, 
Fortune  unfolding  her  gates  to  the  poor, 
Science  displaying  the  secrets  of  time, 
Yoking  the  forces  of  nature  sublime, 
Progress  and  weal  with  the  country  allied, 
And  Glory  adorning  her  banner  of  pride. 

How  beautifully  rolls  the  Brandywine  ! 
Hast'ning  to  mingle  itself  in  the  brine, 


SHE  IS  NOT  THERE.  139 

Water  fowls  dipping  their  wings  in  its  crest, 
Swimmers  fomenting  its  waves  into  yest, 
Holiday  barks  sailing  gayly  along, 
Freighted  with  frolic  and  graces  and  song, 
Fishermen  watching  the  tremulous  line, 
And  dreamers  in  quest  of  the  Muses'  shrine, 
In  the  haunted  dells  of  the  Brandywine. 


SHE  IS  NOT  THERE. 

I  glance  outside  the  dwelling-house, 

And  o'er  the  bright  parterre  ; 
The  flowers  -are  gayly  blooming, 

And  scent  the  summer  air ; 
The  alleys  lined  with  evergreen, 

Are  trimmed  with  tasteful  care ; 
The  birds  are  singing  that  she  loved — 

She  is  not  there,  not  there. 

I  gaze  about  the  doorway  sill, 

On  the  bronzed,  old,  iron  chair; 
The  pine-tree  waves  its  shadows  cool, 

That  used  to  fan  her  hair ; 
The  beggar's  waiting  at  the  gate, 

Who  blessed  her  with  his  prayer ; 
The  neighbors  pass  she  used  to  greet — 

She  is  not  there,  not  there. 


140  SHE  IS  NOT  THERE. 

I  enter  in  the  spacious  hall, 
With  quick,  unconscious  air ; 

I  look  around  the  parlor  seats ; 
I  seek  the  open  stair ; 

I  listen  for  a  voice  or  step — 
She  is  not  there,  not  there. 

The  carriage  drives  within  the  yard 
The  dogs  bound  from  their  lair; 

And  one  by  one  the  seats  are  left, 
That  she  was  wont  to  share, 

I  mark  them  as  they  pass  me  by — 
She  is  not  there,  not  there. 

I  sit  me  at  the  family  board, 
Beside  her  constant  chair; 

I  seem  to  cull  the  parts  she  chose 
To  make  her  evening  fare ; 

I  turn  around  to  meet  her  smile — 
She  is  not  there,  not  there. 

I  bring  some  favored,  genial  book, 
Some  lay  or  ballad  rare; 

I  rest  near  where  she  often  bent 
To  catch  the  quaint  old  air ; 

No  gentle  signs  respond  to  me — 
She  is  not  there,  not  there. 

Familiar  scenes  are  beaming  still, 
Old  Kaunts  attractions  bear: 


SHE  IS  NOT  THERE.  141 

Warm  hands  their  kindly  pressure  give  ; 

Fond  looks  their  welcome  wear ; 
And  yet  the  broken  circle  shows 

She  is  not  there,  not  there. 

Those  features  in  the  pendent  frame 

Her  outward  charms  declare ; 
Yet  shall  my  breast  an  image  keep, 

Far  dearer  and  more  fair, 
Of  tenderness,  and  truth,  and  love, 

And  faith  above  despair, 
Until  the  heart's  dead  pulses  show 

She  is  not  there,  not  there. 


NOTES 


(1).  Kate  Spider,  a  witch  of  great  repute  seventy  years  ago, 
lived  on  the  Valley  Hill,  Chester  County,  Pa. 

(2).  Betty  Brown's  grave  is  on  a  beautiful  slope  of  the  Lack- 
awanna, on  land  of  J.  T.  Everhart,  Esq.,  near  Pittston,  Pa.  The 
tombstone  inscription  tells  all  that  is  known  of  her — that  she 
died  in  1778,  at  the  age  of  27  years. 

(3).  The  rider  of  a  piebald  horse,  in  old  times,  was  exposed 
to  great  annoyance,  because  of  the  common  belief  that  he 
could  cure  hooping-cough.  The  incident  related  of  Dobson  was 
obtained  from  an  elderly  person  acquainted  with  the  fact. 

(4).  The  Doans  were  seven  brothers  of  Bucks  County,  Pa., 
famous  Robbers  and  Tories  in  the  revolutionary  war.  They 
were  outlawed,  and  a  price  set  upon  their  heads.  Some  of  them 
were  killed  in  resisting  capture.  Two  were  taken  not  far  from 
the  "Boot  Tavern,"  Chester  County,  Pa.,  and  they  and  another 
of  them  were  hanged  at  Philadelphia  in  1788. 

(5).  Campbell's  Ledge  is  a  stupendous  pile  of  rocks,  several 
hundred  feet  above  the  Susquehanna  River,  and  affords,  perhaps, 
the  most  magnificent  view  of  the  Wyoming  Valley.  The  name, 
according  to  tradition,  is  derived  from  one  Campbell,  who,  being 
pursued  thither  by  Indians,  threw  himself  from  the  ledge  to 
avoid  a  worse  fate  in  their  hands. 

(143) 


144  NOTES. 

(6).  Sconnelltown,  which  exists  no  longer,  was  in  the  last 
century  a  flourishing  village,  some  two  miles  from  the  Turk's 
Head  Tavern,  about  the  only  building  then  standing,  where  is 
now  the  Borough  of  West  Chester,  Pa. 

(7).  The  Packet  Ship  Albion,  on  a  voyage  from  New  York  to 
Liverpool,  was  wrecked  the  22d  of  Api*il,  1822,  near  the  Old 
Head  of  Kinsale,  Ireland.  The  captain  and  all  the  crew  but 
eight  were  lost.  Of  the  cabin  passengers — among  whom  were 
General  Lefebvre  Desnouettes,  Colonel  A.  J.  Prevost,  Major  Wm. 
Gough,  brother  of  Lord  Gough,  Professor  Fisher,  of  Yale  Col- 
lege, and  some  twenty  others — Hon.  William  Everhart,  of  West 
Chester,  Pa.,  was  alone  saved.  The  Irish,  and  especially  James 
B.  Gibbons,  Esq.,  near  Garretstown,  and  James  Redmond  Barry, 
Esq.,  of  Glandore  House,  treated  him  with  great  hospitality. 

(8).  The  Brandywine  is  celebrated  for  the  battle  fought  on  its 
banks  on  the  11th  of  September,  1777.  The  British  made  a  feint 
of  crossing  the  stream  at  Chadd's  Ford,  but  they  crossed  in  force 
about  six  miles  further  up,  at  Jefferis'  Ford.  Washington  re- 
ceived information  of  this  movement  too  late  to  meet  it,  and 
thus  lost  the  battle. 

(9).  Deborah's  Rock  is  so  called,  says  the  story,  from  a  dis- 
appointed girl  of  that  name,  who  destroyed  herself  by  leaping 
from  it. 

(10).  Dungeon  Hollow  is  the  name  of  a  picturesque  turn  of 
the  stream  near  Painter's  Bridge. 

(11).  Indian  Hannah  was  the  last  of  the  Lenape  tribe.  She 
lived  in  a  hut  near  the  Brandywine  long  after  her  people  had 
disappeared. 


M189010    953 

E2>3 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


